Bythos
by 2 Chainz
Summary: A yoga instructor who struggles with an eating disorder discovers happiness in Cato, a vagabond soul that's trying to find a place in the world. Modern Day AU.
1. One

**My lovely Beta readers**—**Huntress3419 and Red Shagging Couch**—**helped me (and are still helping me) with this. You both are sparkling gems and very helpful; thank you!**

* * *

_Bythos_

_"I see my pretty face in his old eyes,_

_I listen to our blood run side by side,_

_I throw my hands to you and run away,_

_It's so cold, so dangerous, that I can't stay."_

—_Pretty Face_, Sóley

* * *

**Foxface**

Diving into a sea can be tranquil or turbulent.

The tranquility arises from the powerful sentiment that is wonder. Wonder from feeling as weightless as a leaf that's drifting in the whistling wind. Wonder from being held captive by cerulean water that tangos around you. Plain and simple—yet ever-so gratifying—_wonder_.

The turbulence builds once you plunge deeper into the ocean depths. The depths where the seawater turns into a mucky green color, the beautiful blue water at the surface gone. The depths that host horrid sea creatures like stonefish and sea urchins.

If you are fortunate enough to escape these ocean dwellers, you will persist to face additional mayhems of the underlying current.

There is, of course, the smart option to glide back to the surface, to catch your breath while the sun in the sky bakes down upon your flesh ...

But the desire to descend deeper into the ocean depths quivers away the choice to rescue yourself. Severe alternatives are always the most coaxing, attracting a dubious person to the ill decision like a hungry fish allures to the scent of blood.

That's when the consequences consume you.

The horrendous ocean monsters tear at you, aiming to rip your flesh into tattered seaweed. The chive seawater weights atop your body in tons. Torn at, ripped apart, weighted on, _drowned_.

Some will know when to stop taking on the undertow, know when the time comes to escape the demons. Others are not so intelligent and lucky.

Finch, called Foxface by many (perhaps too many), hugs herself into the porcelain toilet, the remainder of the breakfast she recently ate being spit into the round bowl. The humidity of the hot spray splattering against the shower curtain slightly fogs the bathroom mirror. An egg biscuit reeks the bathroom with its sour scent.

After being certain that she will not heave again, she ascends from the kneeling position she is in, flushes the vomit down the toilet, and grabs the toothbrush that perches on the edge of the sink. The redhead avoids the bathroom mirror the entire time she scrubs at her teeth and tongue, knowing that it's not necessary to look at herself.

_I'm still ugly; I don't need to look into the mirror to check._

She spits the foamy toothpaste into the sink, turning on the faucet for a moment to help the white lather slither down the drain.

She adjusts the black tank top she wears, still avoiding the mirror and solely trusting that the shirt doesn't show too much cleavage or stomach. Long-sleeved shirts used to be the main type of clothing she would wear, but then the summer plagued the city with its scorching rays.

Ready to leave, she turns the bathroom light off and departs the house.

Summer invites everyone to indulge within its felicity. Ice cream trucks stalk around neighborhoods with playful melodies, and most of the children outside run around with Popsicles that drip onto their clammy hands. Parents watch the kids from kitchen windows, comfortable within their air-conditioned homes. Dogs prance back and forth between sprinklers to cool off some heat. Everyone gratifies in the paradise that is summer.

Outdoors aren't exactly what she likes to indulge in. The quietness and serenity of indoors is her preferred cup of tea.

The streets aren't too stopped up with traffic while she drives to the studio she hosts yoga classes in.

Yoga is one amongst the few things that makes the redhead happy. It's peaceful, squelches stress and anger, and intriguingly artistic. She can recall childhood times when she was scrolling through the television channels around midnight, the vicinity where all those infomercials are shown and generally ignored.

An ad for yoga classes stole the screen time, and she can remember herself pausing with the remote in hand and eyes wide with fascination.

The way that the yoga instructors on the silver screen moved their legs and bent their bodies looked impossibly graceful. They simply appeared so at peace, so tranquil.

Finch desperately needed serenity at that pivotal time of her life. Peace to escape the bitter and painful reality she lived in. Quietness to block away the disorderliness of the harsh household she was trapped and scarred in. Yoga was portrayed on the television as the most enchanting release that could rescue anyone from an ugly existence.

Finch wanted to be a yoga instructor ever since that night, and she finally has that wish, but she knows that she will never be as beautiful (or even simply beautiful) as the other yoga teachers in the world.

_I'm ugly; at least, I can accept it._

And she has accepted that belittling opinion (that she believes is a fact).

Everyone compliments her vibrant strands of hair, claiming that they would love to have hair that's as aglow as the sun on an unclouded day. She can't stand the red hair she has, knowing that the color is nothing like the beautiful Earth-warmer.

Everyone assures her that the fox-shaped face she was born with looks unique. That's how she received the nickname she has: Foxface. It isn't the most complimenting name one could have, but she has grown used to it.

The last quality that she is constantly assured of is that she appears thinner than a toothpick, all skin and bones. The weight comments drive intruding rogues into her brain. The rogues that call forth appalling childhood memories.

The redhead can remember being around three or four when the touching incidents started. She recalls lying atop princess-printed sheets, goggling up to see her pretty face reflect within his old eyes. The beady, hollow eyes that belonged to her father.

Oblivious at the young age, she didn't think much about it when the accidents occurred: a hand slipping between her thighs while she was being tucked into bed, an elongated goodnight kiss that flavored of cold beer. The incidents, though, grew questionable. Lethal.

"Stop it," she mutters demandingly to herself, trembling the ghoulish memories away from thought.

She parks her silver car in the usual parking space she claims when coming to guide through hour-long yoga classes.

The yoga studio is asthenic and uncluttered, so vibrant and shipshape that it makes her smile. The walls are covered with the most astir red, matching the soft curtains that loosely conceal the windows of the studio. The hardwood floors are light brown and match every shelf that's covered with books of every genre in the studio.

Literature is another cup of tea that she thoroughly enjoys.

Taking a glance at the clock on the wall, she learns that it won't be another ten or so minutes until the yoga students begin to show up. A smile dances onto her face, and she waltzes over to a bookshelf and picks out a random novel.

_Dragon Slippers_, by Jessica Day George.

The two people in the world who know her the most would say that she picked the book on purpose. It's one amidst the few books that she never grows bleary of, and one that she could read (and has read) over one million times.

To tally to the things that she savors, she plugs her iPhone into the studio speakers and lowers the volume so that a lulling song by Sarah Fimm ghosts around the vacant studio. The cavern is not foreign to the smooth, melodic rock fused with electronic grooves.

Plopping down into a beanbag chair that is near the bookshelf, she opens the book to the first page and gets rapt in the melody and ink-kissed pages. Pages filled with magical creatures, a humble and strong heroine, and a pair of significant slippers. That, mixed with the angelic voice of Sarah Fimm, is essentially Heaven to Foxface.

It's not even five minutes later when the sound of booming rock music and drifting tires rips the young woman away from the euphoria.

Curious, she hoists herself up from the beanbag chair and approaches the glass doors to see where all the racket comes from.

Clove, one of the two people who know her the most, climbs down from a dark truck and slams the door. As soon as the raven-haired passenger is few feet away from the monstrous vehicle, it speeds away to an unknown destination.

Finch opens the door for Clove, whose hands are full with an iPhone, yoga block, and water bottle. "Who in the world was driving that truck?" she asks breathlessly, letting the door go when her friend storms into the studio.

"My fucking stepbrother." she answers sharply. She throws down the lime green yoga block onto a random spot about the floor. "My car wouldn't start this morning, so he had to drive me here."

The word _stepbrother_ makes Finch flinch, and her eyebrow raises with curiosity. She is not shocked that Clove has a stepbrother, though, but shocked that he's back home. She has never met the mysterious man, but Clove has said once or twice that he—Cato, his name is—travels a lot with no pretension or inspiration to return home.

Bohemian is a lifestyle that she doesn't think she would adapt to felicitously. Going from place to place, being forced to meet and leave people. _Disorderly_ would be a clear word to describe the living preference.

"When'd he come back?" she queries, walking closer to Clove.

The duo have been great friends for three years, such great friends that they know everything about one another. There is only one other person on Earth that knows everything about Foxface, and she is uncertain on what to consider that person as anymore. She angrily shakes thoughts about _him_ away, thoughts that would eventually lead to memories, and memories that would eventually lead to tears.

"Two days ago, I think," Clove replies, settling on a yoga mat and proceeding into the _Fish_ pose. "And I'm counting down the seconds till he leaves again."

The comment urges a laugh from Foxface, as she also settles down onto a yoga mat and gets into the _Lotus_ position—sitting cross-legged with hands resting on the knees, palms up. "What were you two arguing about this morning?" Not even two minutes ago, Cato barely waited for Clove to close the truck door to speed away.

"He was mad that he had to bring me here." Clove scoffs.

"If you want," Finch offers generously, "I could pick you up and drop you off."

The raven-haired woman ascends from the pose she exhibits and throws arms around her caring best friend. "Thank you!" she exclaims.

The pair continue into different yoga positions while talking about their weekend until the other yoga students arrive to the studio. Apart from Clove, six other female colleagues take the regular yoga session with Finch. Everyone gets into a spot on the floor and begins to stretch. The entire group follows Finch into hip rolls, and Madge Undersee begins a friendly conversation with the group.

"What did you all do this weekend?" questions the blonde.

Finch wonders if she ever sounds as silky as Madge. There are qualities that she would die to have from each recurring yoga student.

Annie Cresta has gem-like irises that anyone would die to have. The long, dark hair Clove has that gives her a gothic-themed Rapunzel appearance. Delly has a perplexing ability to always find positivity in any situation. Enobaria has teeth that could make pearls jealous. The fearless vibe that bleeds from Johanna like a wound. The skinny features that Katniss Everdeen is blessed with, the traits that she longs for the greatest.

Everyone assures Finch that she's unhealthily skinny. Everyone lies.

"Glimmer is going to fucking freak out, and I hope I'm there to witness it." she descends back to reality at the snarky comment Johanna makes.

"Oh, I hadn't even thought about that! I hope they don't see each other again, because they used to keep me up at night with all their disgusting moaning. Keep that dumb blonde away." Clove whines with pouted lips.

They all laugh and snicker at her, continuing into the _Cobra_ pose—where you do a backbend while laying down and supporting your upper body with your arms. Finch is automatically aware that they talk about Cato, who Glimmer loves to boast past relations with.

Sarah Fimm continues to quietly play in the background of all the conversation. They all used to complain about the music choice, the yoga students. Clove, Enobaria, and Johanna always groused that Sarah sounds too depressed while singing and that they would prefer pop trash.

Instead of nagging the yoga class into doing the routine of stretches and yoga positions, Finch allows the group to partake in whatever poses they desire. The redhead also strays from the habitual stances, going back to the _Lotus_ position.

Studies show that the meditating posture fights against depression and anxiety.

Finch concentrates on nothing but meditating for however long she can manage. The loner occasionally catches a sentence or two about the weekend that just passed by. Finnick apparently aided Annie in serving food at a homeless shelter. A chorus of awe noises and hums follow that story. Enobaria and Johanna complain about some overhyped movie that's in theaters. Peeta randomly baked Katniss a cake that she claims was delicious.

Finch studies Katniss, wondering how she could maintain skinniness after having apparently feasted on the majority of a cake. The yoga instructor forces herself to stop listening to the conversations, focusing on nothing but the stress-relieving posture she's in.

Time passes by quickly on this particular Monday, and it's not long before everyone is thanking her for the almost-free yoga class and leaving for their cars or the coffee shop next door.

Money isn't something that she needs. She has, and will always have, unlimited amounts of money. As long as she stays quiet about some certain things that the family yearns to keep private, wealth is being flung at her as if there's no tomorrow. Most people call the yoga teacher lucky, but they don't know the backstory to all the riches and indulgences.

"Did you want me to give you a ride home today?" Finch looks to Clove once the class has exited the quiet studio. Her raven-haired colleague is obviously annoyed, pacing back and forth with outright impatience.

Clove halts the back-and-forth treading for a moment, checking something on the iPhone she has in hand. "No," she soughs. "I already told my brother to pick me up today, but definitely tomorrow."

With that, Finch is back into that beanbag chair with _Dragon Slippers_. Clove plops onto the floor and lays face-up at the redhead's feet, looking up at her iPhone and taking purposeless pictures out of pure boredom.

Time flies by to Finch while she's lavishing in the fiction, satiating within an errorless plot that revolves around an interesting female lead. Many women that have recently sprouted from their teenage years like she has get this elation from various things like sex, money, and popularity. She is content to admit that novels reward her with that ecstasy—or, at least, ever since she broke free from her most recent (and only) relationship.

_No, you can't think about _him_ now. You promised Clove, and yourself, that everything was all right, remember?_ The sole voice that doesn't pester the red-headed antisocial with entirely antagonistic thoughts speaks.

"Can you please change the playlist?" Clove caterwauls, unintentionally shattering numerous thoughts and reflections. "I think Sarah Fimm's entire album played twice already."

Finch smiles wryly at Clove and gives a roll of her eyes, but gets up to change the repeat on another playlist. The only songs that she purchases are written and harmonized by underappreciated singers who have extraordinary talent.

While she is scrolling through artists and attempting to choose one, the glass door of the studio swings open. She spins around to see a young man with pale skin and spiky, dirty blonde hair looking over at Clove. The young man lifts up the dark sunglasses he shields his eyes with to expose an irritated stare.

_That must be Cato_, she thinks.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Cato barks. "I've been waiting in the damn parking lot for ten minutes."

"And I've been waiting here for almost an hour!" Clove retorts sharply, getting up from the floor and grabbing the yoga block she brought_. I've been reading for an hour? _Finch wonders. "I'll text you later, Foxface. Oh, I forgot to introduce you two! Foxface, this is my stepbrother; my very aggravating stepbrother."

Cato gives a one-second glance at the young woman to acknowledge her presence, but quickly looks back at the redhead with wide eyes. "You're Foxface?" Cato asks, approaching Finch with an extending hand. Foxface hesitantly shakes the hand and nods shyly. "When Clove said a fox-faced yoga teacher, I expected someone a little more … I didn't expect you to be so …" The young man trails away, and other diminishing thoughts about herself begin to swarm Finch like bees. "You're Foxface?" Cato repeats, tone drowning with stupor.

_Unfortunately._

"Yes," Finch confirms with a slight nod.

_Cato must think that I'm ugly, too._

The spiky-haired man turns back around when Clove lets out an annoyed groan. "You're slower than I thought," she quips, waiting at the door due to the incapability to open it with an iPhone in one hand and yoga block in the other.

Cato looks back at Foxface one final time before going to open the door for Clove, who exchanges one final goodbye with her friend before heading to the black truck in the parking lot. Cato walks after his stepsister, glancing back to the yoga studio once more before getting into the vehicle and driving away.

Finch, realizing that she's been moronically gazing at the two, goes back to choosing an artist to play about the cavern. Austra, a Canadian band that makes equally as vexing music as Sarah Fimm, is finally chosen while Finch aims to block away dreadful reflections about herself. She needs to finish rereading the mystic book she picked out earlier.

The book ending is near, but roaming speculations distract the book lover away from the climax.

_Why was Cato so shocked when he saw me? Am I that unpleasant and hideous to look at? Does everyone—Annie, Clove, Delly, Enobaria, Johanna, Madge, Katniss—feel this way about me, but just feel too much compassion and pity for me to act like Cato did?_

Troubled, she glimpses down at herself, wondering if it could be that Cato was attempting to convey that she is weighty and not as feebly thin as everyone alleges. She puts down _Dragon Slippers_ and laggardly lifts up the tank top she wears, frightened that she will not find a flat stomach that's complimented by visible ribs.

And she can't see them: ribs. She is not as deathly slender as people plea, not as ill as everyone declares.

_I'm fat_, she murmurs internally. The yoga teacher is quick to tug the black tank top back down, unable to look at the atrocity and repulsiveness that is herself. She is standing up and jogging in place within the next few seconds, incapable to dominate the intruding imps that are screaming that she's nowhere near thin enough. _You'll never be skinny enough, beautiful enough_, the evil voices chant. _You are _nothing_._

Imps like these constantly plague the poor woman, and they've been haunting her for only God knows how long. These devilkin formed when the touching incidents with her father started.

She jogs faster, furiously racing away from the horrendous memories that proceed to develop. She can't let herself think about those times again, though it's nearly impossible not to recall being manipulated and toyed with.

Not even Austra, nor the mystifying Sarah Fimm, can soothe the scarred soul with melodic tunes and angst-ridden lyrics. Nor can the captivating story that was written by Jessica Day George, the fiction about a teenage girl who befriends guardian dragons.

Finch was sexually abused as a child, and not even the strongest and most resilient knights can remedy those abysmal scars.

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**Thank you for reading! Reviews and constructive criticism would be wonderful.**

**You can also find me on Tumblr:** **eknowbaria . tumblr . com (remove all spaces).**


	2. Two

**I'm **_**terribly**_** sorry for the late update and short Chapter; that has got to be the worst combination ever. You gorgeous readers are allowed to curse me out if it takes this long again.**

* * *

_Bythos_

"_I could corrupt you,_

_In a heartbeat,_

_You think you're so special,_

_Think you're so sweet."_

—_Corrupt_, Depeche Mode

* * *

**Cato**

Traffic is slightly heavier than it was when Cato dropped Clove off at the yoga studio. He would usually be annoyed with being halted in traffic while stuck within the close vicinity of his stepsister, but the car influx and whatever Clove is rambling on about is not what his mind nexuses on at the moment.

Foxface, the famous redhead who Clove mentions every now and then, is the only person that Cato involuntarily focuses on. The vixen-resembling yoga instructor is undoubtedly attractive. Even displaying the lazy style of athletic shorts and a loose ponytail, she is eye-catching.

Only one trait about the girl makes Cato wary: weight. Foxface appears to be of lesser weight than Clove, and that seems like something that's impossible to be: thinner than Clove. _Though_, Cato thinks lewdly, _she's still got a great ass. _

"Cato!" Clove snaps, waving a hand in front of his face. "Are you even listening to me?"

Cato brushes the hand away and nods. "Of course. I heard everything you said." he lies shamelessly. Clove squints blazing eyes at him, presumingly attempting to detect sincerity in the claim. Cato allows a smirk to shadow across his face when Clove finally turns back to her iPhone.

Clove is undeniably on the handful of enlivening things about returning home, though Cato would never allow himself to admit to it. It's always refreshing to be around a person whose personality is much like your own, though you both argue and fight like you're fire and ice — it's the true meaning of brother and sister, or stepbrother and stepsister.

Glimmer (amidst other girls) is also within the handful of exhilarating things about returning home. Cato will only turn to those desirous propositions whenever he finds himself with nothing else to do (and that is meant quite literally).

"So," Cato decides to clear the thoughts about Glimmer before they can distinctly form. "How long have you and Marvel been dating?"

"Close to … three months." Clove calculates the answer and smirks.

Cato remembers hanging out with Marvel back when he was more permanent about where he lived. There were little things that hinted at the fact that Marvel had a special liking toward Clove, but Cato never thought much about those factors. Cato actually doesn't mind that his old buddy is dating (and possibly having sex with) his stepsister. Marvel was, and undoubtedly still is, a cool and trustworthy guy that would kill to save a life.

"You're grinning like an idiot." Cato observes, flashing a teasing smirk at Clove. "You two must be fucking." Clove punches the joker on the arm without any restraint, which only widens the overbearing beam.

"Yeah, I'm grinning like you were grinning while meeting Foxface." Clove retorts sharply.

_Fuck, I was grinning? _Cato ponders and mentally kicks himself for allowing his thoughts about the yoga teacher portray. To be completely fair, the vixen _is _that attractive, and in the most genuine and natural way. Glimmer is attractive, sure — but only with caked makeup and clothes that leave little to the imagination. Foxface is attractive with a loose ponytail, having various strands of red hair sticking out in miscellaneous places, and clothes that are worn while exercising. _I definitely was fucking grinning._

Cato snaps back to reality when a car behind him impatiently honks their horn — the red light is now green.

Both Cato and Clove decide to drop the senseless jab-fest they were momentarily having. The remainder of the car ride is silent, only having the sporadic scoff or laugh from Clove whenever she spots something reaction-inducing on Facebook or Instagram.

_Facebook or Instagram_, Cato thinks effectively. _Foxface has to have one — everybody has a Facebook or Instagram. _Cato is about to ask Clove what the redhead's last name is, but concludes against the query. The question will only further the so-called grinning and the so-called grinning will further the bantering.

The young man decrees that it doesn't even matter, whether or not the redhead has any type of social networking profile. _Maybe that's why I'm fawning over the chick_, Cato mentally figures: _it's been a while since I've seen a redhead, or slept with one._

Cato is that cliché guy that you usually see on romantic comedies or teenage party movies that revolve around nothing but drinking and sleeping with the nearest hot chick. Well, that's what he's been told on numerous occasions. Cato has been told that he's a condescending and insincere jackass, that he's an unmanageable dropout who's going nowhere in life, that he's an arrogant douchebag that attracts blonde bimbos (Clove told him that one yesterday). But he figures that everyone has their respective haters.

It's not long before he's pulling into the driveway. Cato wishes that Clove didn't still live with Brutus and Cashmere, and he's positive that Clove also wishes that _he_ had _his_ own house.

Brutus and Cashmere are not exactly the most responsible parents. Cato's room has an air vent that's attached to the air vent in their room, and they seem to either not know or not care whether he can hear or not when they're attacking one another in bed. Cato can recall shoving his earphones into his ears on more than one occasion since he's been home.

Cato opens the front door with his key, and he and Clove stalk inside.

"What are we having for dinner tonight?" Clove wonders, throwing her yoga block across the living room floor and falling back on the couch.

"_Dinner_?" Cato repeats from the kitchen, opening the refrigerator. "Hell, what are we having for _lunch_? I'm starving."

"Well," Clove sits up on the sofa and smiles deviously, "you can buy us some lunch from _la Madeleine_ with all the pretty cash you have."

"Clove, I thought I told your nosy ass to stay out of my room," Cato calls, not as angry as he'd typically be. Closing the fridge, he meanders into the living room and motions toward the door. "Let's go."

With an excited shriek, Clove jumps up from the svelte couch and heads back to the door. "How did you even get all that money?" They depart the house that they haven't even been in for five minutes. "I bet you were a male prostitute or something."

The front door locks with a distinct _click_ that almost sounds in place in the summer air. Cato walks alongside Clove to his jet-black truck that scorches underneath the radiant sun. "Not even close." Cato chuckles.

* * *

"They have the best desert ever." Clove swoons, leaving _la Madeleine _with a small to-go box that carries crème brûlée.

Cato walks beside his stepsister, also holding a to-go box that stores chocolate cheesecake. "They have the best _food_ ever." Cato corrects, and then unlocks the truck doors and climbs in. The desserts they carry quickly heap the truck interior with their mouth-watering aromas. Cato is glad that they ordered the extra dessert to take home.

The dessert makes him involuntarily think about Foxface. To be honest, he thought about the redhead the entire time he was eating, and even considered asking Clove to invite the chick. Not only because he wanted to bask in the beauty she radiates, but also because she seems to not eat much. In complete truth, she seems to not eat at all.

The engine roars awake when Cato presses the key into the ignition. The streets aren't too busy; they mostly host mailmen and teenagers who can drive. Traffic is never really a big problem in this city, which adds to the decent things about returning home.

The truck is pulling into the driveway few minutes later. Two missing Mercedes-Benz tell Cato and Clove that Brutus and Cashmere are still at their daytime jobs. The step-siblings climb down from the monstrous truck, carrying their to-go boxes. They go inside and save them in the refrigerator, then part separate ways in the house.

Giving into curiosity, Cato pulls his iPhone from his jeans pocket and goes to the Instagram App. He doesn't need a full name to look someone up on Instagram. Not everyone goes by their full name there, right? Cato can only hope.

Plopping down onto his bed, he first checks his notifications before heading to the search bar. Amongst many other girls who like and comment (flirt) on his pictures, he recognizes two specific usernames: _lytome_ and _glimmering_.

Lyme, the last girl Cato was with before he decided to leave everyone and everything behind again, has left a demanding comment on each photo Cato has on his Instagram. _Why'd you leave? Where are you? You're coming back, right? Where the FUCK are you? _The interrogations are endless. Cato silently thanks that he never gave the crazy chick his number.

Glimmer, who craftily goes by _glimmering_ on Instagram, is much more sneaky and low-lying on the photo-sharing App. The blonde has liked every single picture Cato has on his page and has even commented a winking smiley face on some. The infinite likes and suggestive winking faces are offers more than anything else. And with offers comes no commitments, and with no commitments comes Cato.

Why be only dedicated to one person? Cato figures that he is young and doesn't need to obligate his developing life to one girl. Girls don't really seem interesting in him for anything apart from looks, and that makes _him _the douchebag? He'll never understand it.

Figuring that Clove might be following Foxface, he goes to his stepsister's Instagram page first and hunts through the people she follows. Clove doesn't follow too many people; she has more followers than people she follows, so it's easy to get through the short list.

And then he finds a username that Foxface could be going under: _thegirlwiththefoxtattoo_. Cato clicks on the username and wonders if she actually has a tattoo. Sighing with relief, he looks more closely at the profile picture to the Instagram account and doesn't mistake the fiery hair in the square-shaped picture.

Only five pictures occupy the account, and three are not even of the yoga teacher. Cato can see that one shows Clove and Marvel sitting beside one another at a restaurant. Cato clicks the second one, unable to see it when it's minimized. Once Instagram loads the picture, he sees that it's a DVD: _Rugrats in Paris_.

"Wow," Cato murmurs, not even realizing that he's smiling.

The third shows a college acceptance letter, and the caption consists of countless hearts and exclamation points.

Done with looking at the pictures that _don't_ contain the redhead, he clicks on the first one that Foxface _is_ in.

The photo shows the vixen, who is dressed in an azure dress, standing before an asylum-looking building and smiling proudly. At least, that's what the fox-like woman is attempting to do in the snapshot. Cato can see tears pooling in the forestry eyes she has. Curious, he scrolls down to read the caption: _At the Rape Treatment Center. These girls are the most courageous and beautiful people I've ever met. _The photo has seventy-six likes, and it still doesn't seem like enough.

Acting on impulse, Cato taps the picture twice with his thumb and the heart shows to inform him that he has liked the picture.

"Shit," he growls sharply, realizing his mistake.

_Too late to do anything now_, Cato shrugs it off mentally. Disliking the photo will only deem cruel, which honestly isn't foreign to Cato, but it'd simply feel wrong to dislike this particular picture.

Any lustful feeling Cato has toward the yoga teacher ascends into something even more powerful than lust: respect. Well, the lust is still dwelling, but something about this redhead ... _intimidates_ Cato. Never has he felt lower than another person, a girl in particular. Never has he felt that a girl can be anything outside of a good time.

Cato turns his iPhone off before compulsion drives him to go look at the other picture. The brute figures that it isn't worth getting worked up over one chick.

But this one chick visits and aids rape victims.

* * *

The alarm clock rings Cato awake, and he slams his fist down onto it to quiet the sleep killer.

_Damn Clove and that cheap-ass car she has that's always breaking down. _Cato figures that he shouldn't complain too much; he'll have another opportunity — two, actually — to see the fox-faced yoga teacher who has been unwillingly dancing around his thoughts. In the end, he winds up thanking his stepsister for having such a shitty car.

Yawning, Cato steps from his king-sized bed and stretches. The yawn stretches out until he is halfway down the hallway that leads to the living room and kitchen.

Voices communicate with one another in the kitchen. The voices are unmistakably female; one is unmistakably Clove. Cato strains his ears to see if the other voice is his mother, but the tone is too svelte and sweet to be Cashmere. _It must be someone who's friends with Clove_, Cato thinks and smirks. Clove surrounds herself with many attractive girls who would probably die to spend one night with him.

Body clad in nothing but plaid pajama pants, Cato parades into the kitchen.

Shock from who roosts at the kitchen table makes his boastfulness falter. The two girls sitting at the table look up at Cato, and Clove executes an annoyed groan. "Put some clothes on," she says, lifting a cereal bowl to drink the remaining milk. Foxface, who sits adjacent from Clove, glances down awkwardly.

Quickly quivering away the shock, Cato grins suggestively and opens the fridge. "Foxface," Cato ignores Clove completely, taking out some orange juice from the fridge and turning to face the yoga instructor. "I know that Clove is rude, but I didn't think that she'd be so oblivious as to not offer you something to eat. Want anything? We've got just about everything here." That is a complete lie, but Cato will say anything to hold the uncomfortable and spaced stare Foxface now executes. It's as if endless thoughts are running through the vixen's mind.

"No," she replies with a small smile. Foxface gazes back down at the kitchen floor. "I already ate at my house, thank you."

The vixen wears athlete shorts and a blue tank top, adopting the same indolent appearance she displayed the day before. Cato remembers the picture on Instagram where she wore that stunning blue dress, and concludes that she looks fantastic wearing anything. Cato ponders how good she looks wearing nothing.

Shrugging away the lustful image, Cato drinks from the orange juice carton to hide his smirk.

"You are fucking nasty." Clove carps, wiping away a milk mustache. "We all have to drink from that, you ass."

The stepsiblings glance at one another, and Cato can spot a certain wrath burning in his stepsister's green-gold eyes. In an uncanny way, he knows that she isn't angry at how he drinks from the orange juice carton, but irritated at something entirely dissimilar.

"You can go wait for me in your car," Clove turns back to Foxface. "I just have to go grab my phone off the charger, and I'll be ready."

_Oh, so Foxface is bringing Clove to yoga lessons. _Cato knows that he might've missed something important when Clove was babbling on during that car ride yesterday.

Foxface nods and gives Cato a sideways glance before exiting the house.

Clove turns on him the moment the front door meets with its wooden frame. The frustration she feels is as evident as the sideways glace Foxface gave Cato before leaving. Whereas the presto glimpse made Cato smirk, the cold stare Clove executes makes him roll his pool-like eyes.

"What?" he growls.

"What do you think you're doing?" Clove demands.

"Drinking from the carton. I thought we've already established this." Cato answers.

Clove snaps, "_Why were you talking to my friend?_" Each word is enunciated with such acid that Cato backs up into the kitchen counter, the cold marble coming in contact with his bare back and causing a shudder to pass through his body.

Cato throws his hands up in exasperation. "Why was I being polite, you mean?" he shoots back with just as much poison.

"No," Clove scolds furiously. "You were being much more than _polite_. Don't fucking _flirt_ with my friend, yet alone my _best friend_."

Selflessly, Cato processes what just said.

Clove is _best friends_ with Foxface, the redheaded yoga teacher that he is involuntarily infatuated with. That means that he'll likely be seeing the fox-resembling woman more often than he firstly thought. Even though that may be true, it doesn't mean that Cato will be able to try anything with her or even simply talk to her. Clove is as overprotective and vicious as an overbearing mother. There is no way that she'll be accepting with him messing around with Foxface. In other words and cliché translations, Foxface is forbidden.

Cato has never had forbidden before; he's had slutty, obsessive, and possessive. Never has he experienced the intriguing sentiment that is forbidden.

"Cato!" Clove barks, waving a hand before his face. "Did you fucking hear me? Stay away from my friends and stick to the skanks."

"Of course," he conceals the smirk that is oh-so desperately attempting to paint across his lips. "I heard everything you said."

* * *

**Remember: curse me out if it takes this story long to update. Be a lovely reader and leave a review (even though I don't deserve it). Thank you; you're all wonderful!**


	3. Three

_Bythos_

"_I'm being haunted by a whisper,_

_A chill comes over me,_

_I've been trapped inside this moment,_

_I'm not a victim, I'm not a freak._"

—_Somebody Help Me_, Full Blown Rose

* * *

**Foxface**

Finch fiddles with the iPhone in her lap, not using it for anything but distraction.

Distraction from how hungry she is. Distraction from what she just saw in the kitchen.

Can one shirtless guy drinking from an orange juice carton really be _that _attractive? She thinks about how his dirty blonde hair was messy and spiky all over his head. _Without a doubt_, she answers mentally. But where the attractive features come, there also comes arrogance, and it is more than apparent that Cato is made with the distasteful trait.

Well, that's what Clove always says. Can walking half-naked into your kitchen really be classified as egotism? Finch decides to not jump to conclusions about Cato and whatever his personality may be.

_It doesn't matter either way_, taunts an urchin in the antagonistic mind she has. _Cato thinks that you're fat and ugly, just like everyone else does._

Clove is getting into the car with the yoga teacher moments later. "Thanks again for giving me a ride," she says, buckling up into the passenger seat. "But now you see what I've got to put up with until Cato leaves."

Giving a slight laugh, Finch fights the urge to glance back at the house and drives away.

"When will he leave?" she asks casually.

Shrugging, Clove replies, "No clue. Let's just hope that it's really soon. I miss eating breakfast without seeing him shirtless." The word _eating _laces the car with tension. Even though it's summer outside, the stiffness plagues the car interior with a firm coldness. "You did eat, though, right?" The question is like a vicious reality; you don't want to face it, but you know it's real and it's approaching. And here it is: lying thick in the stuffy atmosphere.

"Yes," she lies. Finch is fully aware that Clove can see past fictional stories as if she's looking through glass. The redhead grips the steering wheel more tightly and swallows. She really isn't in the mood to argue with Clove or try (fail) to defend the eating habits she carries out. Eating is a subject best avoided; literally and figuratively.

Pupils focused and razor-sharp, Clove observes the young woman who drives the car. Finch feels like she's an animal on display at a zoo; she feels caged and exposed. _The more you stare at me, the more imperfections you notice._

"Don't lie to me," Clove pleads. "You look like you're getting thinner and thinner."

"It takes time for a person to gain weight." Finch points out.

"They can't gain weight if they're not eating anything or turning around to go purge." Clove shoots back. Uncomfortable silence swells around the two best friends. Finch avoids eye contact with Clove and stares out at the road ahead, amber eyes blinking unevenly. _Just stop talking about this_, she begs internally. "Look," Clove shatters the quietness after taking a deep breath. "Me and Marvel are going to the skating rink tomorrow night. You should come with us. Remember how we used to go and we had those really good fried Oreos?"

Foxface nods slowly, remembering how she was firstly reluctant to try a fried Oreo, but finally gave them a chance and they were Heaven-like. She also recalls slipping into the bathroom and throwing up to keep the calories away.

"I remember, but I shouldn't go with you and Marvel. I'd feel as if I were intervening on your date," she admits.

"You wouldn't be!" Clove promises.

Foxface contemplates on whether to go or not. Skating _is_ something that she's not completely awful at. It is also beneficial for weight loss and burning fat. That's what she desperately desires: to burn away calories and be skinny enough to see probing ribs. "Okay," she smiles at the thought. "Sounds like fun."

The two continue to talk and laugh about various things until they get to the yoga studio. Clove is the only person that Finch can feel content and un-criticized with. Even though she grows uncomfortable and ashamed when the twenty-year-old brings up a conversation about eating, Finch knows that Clove solely wants her to be healthy and happy.

But she can't be happy when she's fat and disgusting.

All she wants is to be skinny, appealing, _perfect_.

No, she doesn't want or need to be perfect. She would be grateful with being thin and only the least bit attractive. As long as she weren't the portly, foul-looking person she is at the time being, the redhead would be ecstatic.

She and Clove are walking into the yoga studio minutes later. Clove, who didn't bring the lime green yoga block, settles onto a mat and proceeds into the _Fish _pose. Finch settles on the juxtaposed mat after plugging—Clove groans—Sarah Fimm into the speakers.

The other students show up after five or ten minutes. Finch notes that she needs to get here a bit earlier; she likes the extra time in the lulling cavern. As opposed to straying away from the set routine, she decides to lead the class and stay on point. Yoga instructors are taught to never ignore the step-by-step stretches and postures, and Finch has allowed them to do it their own way on one too many occasions.

"Did anybody see that picture Glimmer posted on Instagram last night?" Johanna asks, and then bends down to touch her toes.

"The one where she looked like a prostitute?" Delly responds. "Nope."

"I'm trying to make myself forget it, too." Johanna admits with a distasteful look.

"Johanna, you know you prompted that picture!" Annie giggles, brown hair flowing down like a stream while she's reaching down to stretch. Finch listens to the conversation with curious ears; she hasn't checked Instagram in about a week. Books are what she'd rather ease away precious time on. "Glimmer posted it about three seconds after you said that Cato was back."

"Well, I didn't know she had slutty pictures on standby!" Johanna retorts with a laugh.

Remembering how muscular Cato looked this morning, Finch stifles a laugh and honestly can't blame a girl like Glimmer for attempting to impress him. _I need to go see how racy that picture is later_, she makes a mental note.

The class goes down on all fours, their legs outstretched and slightly curved in the air, elbows on the floor and lined up with their shoulders. This yoga position is called the _Dolphin _pose (or the _Puppy _pose, but Finch thinks that she likes dolphins a _little _bit better). They stretch out their legs better in that certain posture, and then continue on with the routine, groaning about how they don't want to follow it.

If these twenty-year-old students complain about the planned schedule for the hour-long yoga class, Finch dreads when she'll be taking in younger children to teach them yoga. Deep down, she knows that their silly impatience won't be the only thing she'll fear when she instructs the kids.

_Why? Why did you have to get so attached to Rue? Why did you have to make this so much harder for yourself, idiot?_

The redhead manages a shaky breath, dissipating the thoughts about Thresh and his adorable sister away before they can become distinct.

"Glimmer should take yoga classes," Enobaria suggests with a sly smirk. "The little slut would learn some interesting sex positions to whip out on someone."

Everyone erupts into uncontrollable laughter that completely blocks out the music being played in the studio. Foxface doesn't mind at all, because she's also laughing. Why these colleagues hate Glimmer with a burning passion, she'll never come to know.

"You all are awful," giggles the fox-resembling woman. _Why can't I be half as amazing as you all are, half as beautiful as you all are? _Finch figures that she is getting better and better with concealing true emotions.

"Has anyone here actually, like, done that before? In a yoga position?" Madge asks shyly, voice honeyed and child-like.

As if she were wearing a magnet to attract eyes, everyone turns and stares at Clove.

"Why is everyone looking at me?" she exclaims. Everyone bursts back into their hysterical laughter. "You all really are awful," she agrees before joining them in their hilarity.

* * *

"I'd ask you to come inside and hang out with me, but you know the jackass who's in there." Clove jerks a thumb toward the house Finch pulls in front of. "Don't want you to have to deal with that."

The redhead laughs lightly and waves it off. "Cato didn't bother me this morning," she promises.

The dark-haired Rapunzel considers this with eyes that are almost squinted into tiny slits. "You don't find him attractive, do you?" Clove interrogates, each word enunciated with poison.

"I didn't look at him enough to tell." Lie.

"Good," Clove huffs and motions toward the house again. "Come on, then."

Finch is about to protest, about to cry out that she isn't ready to come face-to-face with Cato again. Nothing extraordinary has happened between the two, but she just can't bring herself to knowingly allow an attractive person like him see how overweight and ugly she is. People like him—people in general, because anyone can effortlessly be more pleasant to look at than she is—make her feel even more worthless than she already is.

Not finding the voice to make an objection, she follows Clove on tentative feet.

When they walk inside the house, they spot a sleeping (and shirtless) Cato sprawled out on the couch. Well, Finch doesn't solely _spot_ him, but she also _admires _him. The blonde rests his head on a fluffy pillow, one arm buried underneath its featheriness.

_Stop staring at him. Remember how shocked he was to see you yesterday? Cato thinks you're ugly, too._

At least, he is asleep and won't be able to see how unsightly she looks.

Mind too focused on how flawed she is, Finch unknowingly follows Clove into the kitchen. There isn't a room or place in the entire universe that she hates as much as a kitchen.

"Want to share these with me?" Clove asks, opening the pantry to pull out a large Dorito bag. Chips: an easier food to purge.

"Sure," she shrugs.

Without asking if she wants one, Clove goes ahead and snags two soda cans from the refrigerator. They are then heading to the room down the hallway.

Finch perches on the queen-sized bed, the Doritos bag nestled in her lap, and watches Clove dig through the closet with an amused interest. "This tank top and these shorts? Or are they too Glimmer-y?" The twenty-year-old keeps popping in and out of the closet with similar questions. Foxface has never seen Clove _this _worked up over a boy, so she figures that Marvel is a respectable boyfriend.

The yoga instructor smiles faintly at the thought. Clove is still _this _worried about impressing Marvel, even after them dating for three months. Finch misses the times when she had butterflies like that.

Clove takes a sip from a soda can before sighing down at the diverse outfits she has lying across the bed. The clothes vary from tank tops to Aéropostale shirts, blood-red jeans to denim shorts.

"Which one do you—" Clove is cut short by the opening bedroom door.

"Can you stop talking to yourself? I'm trying to get—" Cato halts himself when he sights Finch on the bed. "Oh, you're back."

"Yep, she is," Clove confirms with an eyeroll. "You can feel free to get out now."

"What are you doing?" Cato observes the clothes on the bed, stepping into the room.

Finch can feel herself tense all over; she can feel the room tense all over. Iciness washes across the room when Cato steps in, as if his good looks are able to make an entire room feel insignificant. Taking a quiet breath, Finch focuses only on the clothes Clove has selected from the closet. _I'm ugly and I've always known it_, she thinks._ Why does it matter this much now?_

"I'm trying to figure out what to wear tomorrow night." Clove keeps the details vague. Is Cato that overprotective brother that most young girls have? The thought is insanely cute. "You're a guy," she continues. "Tell me which outfit you'd want your girlfriend to wear to a skating ring."

Raising an eyebrow, he takes few more steps into the room to stand at the bed. Finch feels herself tense up even more at him being only two or three feet away. She shifts a little, the open Dorito bag she holds making a hideous sound. Finch mentally curses herself. Cato doesn't seem to notice, though, because he still studies the clothes on the bed with contemplating eyes.

_Clothes are more interesting than you_, mocks an internal voice.

"I'd say this," he picks up neon yellow shorts, "with something baggy."

"That doesn't make sense!" Clove gripes. "Why would I wear shorts with something baggy? It'd make me look like I weren't wearing anything on my legs."

"Exactly," he responds with a knowing facial expression.

Clove snatches the yellow shorts from his hand. "I guess that _would _satisfy a pervert like you," she admits. "I'm going to go see what your mom's got in her closet." With that, she departs the room with the yellow shorts.

The room heaps with an uncomfortable silence. Foxface wants to run after Clove, but she can't find herself moving. It's as if she's glued to this one space on the bed, stuck in the room that Cato just happens to still be in. Why did Clove leave? Why can't _he _leave? Does he really want to be this nigh to the ugliness she emits?

Not exactly fast, but sudden movement slices crisply through the air. Finch flinches with utter fright, because Cato reaches a hand toward the spot she sits in. It takes the paranoid woman a moment to realize that he's reaching for the Dorito bag.

Paranoia is something that she's had since she was younger, since those _incidents _occurred.

Cato seems a bit concerned about the spasm she had, but shrugs it off and pops a ranch-seasoned chip into his mouth. Finch angles the bag toward him in case he wants more.

"This might sound stalker-ish," he grabs a handful and grins, "but that picture you have on Instagram, the one where you're wearing that dress, it's nice." Finch notices the way Cato pauses before he says _nice_, as if he were going to say something else. "You're really nice for visiting rape victims."

"It was my pleasure." Foxface remembers all the beautiful, broken girls she met that night. Each had a dreary and depressing story to tell, each said that they were shamed for something that they couldn't help, each made Finch cry like a newborn baby. As selfish as it seems, they don't make her feel alone in being sexually abused. "They're the nice ones." They all are heroines.

The two look at one another hesitantly. They rip their distant gaze to a shred when Clove paces back into the room, a gray sweatshirt and curling iron in hand.

"You won't look right with curly hair." Cato comments.

"You don't ever look right." Clove retorts and reaches inside the Doritos bag.

_Neither do I._

"Well, I think I'm going to start heading home now," Finch climbs down from the bed and offers the bag to Cato, who takes it gratefully. Avoiding eye contact with him, she turns to Clove. "Text me what time to meet you guys there."

Clove gives the redhead a thumbs-up.

Finch is then heading for the front door, mentally congratulating herself for not looking at Cato one final time. She needs to hurry home to empty herself of those chips. They can't stay in her system. They can't make her even fatter than she is.

As soon as she's in the car, she feels safe and hidden away from people to see. Being alone means no one is there to judge you. Being alone means you are free to indulge in your own bubble, a bubble incapable from bursting. Finch doesn't need to be around others; all she needs are lulling books and mystical melodies. Why no one else seems to enjoy those pleasantries, she'll never come to understand.

The sun polishes the cerulean sky. No clouds conceal its radiance and summertime joy. Admiring how dazzling the day is, Finch decides that she might go jogging once she's done throwing up those chips. The outsider could even jog back to the yoga studio, read a book, and jog back home before it gets dark.

Finch is pulling up to the house minutes later, and she's almost rushing to get to the bathroom. It's almost like she can feel calories plotting evil things inside her stomach.

Hand trembling, she lifts the toilet seat and stations down on the floor. This used to make her feel nasty, ashamed. After witnessing precisely how much it can help, though, she didn't feel put-off by it.

It's worth it.

Face tilted into the water-filled bowl, she trails an index finger down her throat and feels for that oh-so abused gag reflex. It's not much longer before humid vomit is splattering into the porcelain bowl. The bestrew doesn't dot across the shower curtain this time, which Finch sighs with relief at. Getting up, she flushes the toilet and grabs the toothbrush on the sink.

It's almost a ritual: she kneels down, purges into the toilet bowl, gets up, and scours the evidence away.

_It's worth it_, she reinforces mentally.

The young woman then, without looking at the mirror once, exits the bathroom and heads to the front door. Jogging is something that she used to do every day before she knew how much purging food could help burn fat. Jogging is something she did a lot with _him_. Under a blazing sun or nighttime stars, under a cloudy sky or moonlit welkin.

A furious groan breaks into the quiet atmosphere. Finch is just glad that it wasn't a despondent cry.

Grabbing some keys and an iPhone, she departs the void house and reminds herself to look at the supposedly-slutty photo Glimmer has posted on Instagram when she gets to the studio. Finch proceeds into a jog down the street, attempting to not laugh at the vulgar comments made about Glimmer during the yoga class today. Enobaria and Johanna sure are the class clowns when it comes to Glimmer.

Summer sounds are lively within the air: chirping birds, barking dogs, laughing children.

Foxface is glad that the children are weaving their way through life without a single trouble. No child deserves to go through what she went through. Not the blonde-haired girl riding on a pink bike, not the dark-skinned boy who fills up water balloons, not even the bully who pesters small girl for money to buy candy.

_You deserve all the pain_, declares an urchin.

"I know." It takes the young woman a few moments to realize she murmured the supposed-to-be thought aloud.

The redhead jogs even faster now, as if she will be able to outrun the demons lurking in mind. But they will always be there. They will always torture the weak.

The abused soul is at the yoga studio several minutes later, keys shaking in hand and breathing ragged. Thankful that she keeps water bottles in the mini-fridge in the backroom, Finch finds the strength to unlock the studio and practically runs to the back cavern.

This usually happens when she's recalling the past or drowning in the present: she pushes herself too hard and winds up paying the price. Whether that price be lacking a proper breathing pattern or passing out from not eating. And even though there is a difficult outcome, she never learns to do better, to be better.

It's an endless pattern. It's a hopeless pattern.

Once she has calmed down and is breathing regularly, she plops down into a beanbag chair. Hoping that she can be distracted by it, she goes straight to Instagram. Glimmer is quite the interesting blonde and seems the perfect person to waste time (or thoughts) on.

The redhead is a bit surprised when she sees that she has several unread notifications. Finch places her foremost destination on hold and clicks on the notice page. The username that's the most recent on the page makes the yoga teacher's jaw drop: _catorgasm_. No, it's not only the username that shocks Finch. It's the owner.

Cato.

Well, he _did_ state that he had seen the picture she had taken at the Rape Treatment Center. But he actually _liked _the picture. Won't his girlfriend be angry? Does he even have a girlfriend? Can an attractive person like him stay single for long?

"Stop it." Foxface commands herself. She allows herself to read too much into simple situations, and it's a horrid and irritating habit.

It's not as if the picture like means anything, she decides.

But she still feels a burning sensation in her cheeks.


	4. Four

_Bythos_

"_Pinch me,_

_Is this real, this feeling of release?_

_I'm floating in your Heaven,_

_In the corners of my dream."_

—_Waking Dream_, Natalie Walker

* * *

**Foxface**

Finch takes a deep breath and steps into the bathroom. For the first time in ages, she steps before the mirror and actually _looks _into its clear reflection. The redhead knows that she's being a bit overdramatic about the situation. What evil can come from looking into a mirror? Everyone does it every day; some more often than others. Why can't she do it without feeling like she's going to see a monster?

The reflection shows a young woman with red hair. The strands eclipse the pale, fox-shaped face she has. A black blouse from _Forever 21_ hangs loosely from her body. The tag on the pocket blouse reveals that it's an extra small in size.

Some may say that the reflection in the mirror is beautiful. Some may say that the reflection in the mirror is too skinny.

Foxface says that the reflection is ugly and overweight.

The _true_ identity, though, is much harder to comprehend: broken. Broken in every way manageable, imaginable.

Not wanting to keep Clove waiting, Finch exits the bathroom with a sigh that sounds relieved. Clove texted her just five minutes ago, confirming that she and Marvel were on their way to the skating ring. To be honest, she would rather stay home and continue reading books, as she's been doing since having left the yoga studio last night, but she knows that it's not helpful to sulk around without human contact.

The skating will help burn calories, too. It's an all-in-all win.

Stuffing her iPhone into her polka-dotted shorts, Finch meanders down the hallway and to the front door. Before she leaves the house, she turns toward the kitchen and stares at the silver refrigerator. It's like a painful reminder of how she once was. It's a painful reminder of _who _she once was. Finch finally turns away from the negative souvenir and flicks the remaining lights off before exiting the house.

The night air doesn't live down to its season. Heat swells around the summer atmosphere and doesn't seem to make an attempt to leave. Finch hurries into the car to avoid the way the air likes to frizz hair.

Seeing Clove and Marvel skate around and be in love makes Finch a bit more excited. Even though she approved Marvel as a decent boyfriend a month or so ago, she views this as an advantage to see if he still lives up to his respectable title. The lanky male is also respectable in bed, according to Clove. Finch sighs and shakes away the thought.

One thought, though, seems to be a thought (more like image) that Finch can't shake.

Why in the world does Cato have to be _that_ attractive? Why does he have to be _that_ adorable when he sleeps? Why does he _have _to be related to Clove? Their family relation automatically makes him untouchable. It's almost a girl code to never date someone who is related to, broken up with, or rude to your best friend.

_Cato doesn't want you either way_, she thinks. _He has countless girls after him._

In all honesty, she took some peaks at his Instagram the night before. All the pictures were generally the same: him looking at the camera without even trying to be seductive, but ultimately succeeding. Good-looking people like him should be illegal, should only be delusions you see when you imagine yourself as a princess or goddess.

Cato definitely looks like a God — a Greek God, perhaps.

_I'm starting to read too much_, Finch thinks.

The time is nearing nine o'clock, so there are college kids and other teenagers driving around to get to parties and other events. Finch has never found interest in drinking until she can't determine who she's sleeping with. How some young woman attract toward being drunk, she'll never understand or even want to.

Several minutes later, Finch is pulling into the skating rink parking lot and gaping at how intricate it is to find a parking space. How many people hang out at the skating rink on a Wednesday? Then again, there is a Hooters across the street and a diner nearby.

Finch miraculously finds a parking spot and exits the car. It's locked in a moment; there is no way she trusts anyone from the sports bar across the road. _They'd probably break into my car to buy some wings. _Well, Hooters wings are said to be the best.

As she's crossing the street to get to the skating rink, headlights shine upon the redhead. Foxface is about to hurry across the street when she realizes what the blinding headlights belong to: a midnight-hued truck. That's when Finch realizes who the midnight-hued truck belongs to: Cato.

Tentatively, she smiles and waves at him before moving. There is no way to tell if he smiled or waved back, though, because his headlights were blocking the view.

Finch inhales a breath and walks to the see-through doors. Even though the humidity is doubtlessly plotting against her straight hair, she waits for Cato outside the rink. It's only the kind thing to do. The blonde is walking toward the doors within the next minute or two, a smile pulling at his lips. The sight almost makes Finch smile, but it definitely makes her stomach knot with nervousness. "Hey," Cato greets, reaching past the young woman to open the door.

"Hey, and thank you." Foxface replies and ducks under his arm to get into the front room.

A skinny and annoyed-looking woman stands behind the counter where people pay to get in. The lady taps long fingertips impatiently against the wood underneath them, as if she can't wait until the skating rink closes and she can go home.

Finch is reaching into her pocket to pull out some cash when a hand halts the action.

"I got it." Cato assures, pulling out a wallet from his back pocket.

"No," she frowns in return, "you can't pay for me."

"You're friends with my stepsister — who, by the way, doesn't want me to be here tonight." Cato chuckles to himself and pulls out some money from the wallet. "If you keep Clove from killing me when she sees me, that'll be make up enough for me paying."

"Hm," Finch cocks an eyebrow. "Are you sure that you want to put your life in my hands?"

"Absolutely." Cato grins. The male gives the lady at the desk the money and she returns him with some change. He is then leading the way into the glowing skating rink.

Some atrocious pop song is playing, but Finch is further distracted. The redhead is enveloped by warm and cold smells. The cold smell is a pleasant scent that fizzes from Cato. The mint-flavored gum he chews mixes in nicely with whatever cologne he wears. The first warm scent she smells is the pizza the skating rink offers at the concession stand. It smells hot, fresh. Fattening. The teasing scent mingles with something that's fried: Oreos. Finch wants to throw up already.

Without thinking, she takes a step closer to Cato. Feeling someone closer to him, he looks down at Foxface and motions toward the large area where people skate.

"You skate?" Cato asks.

"Not good," she answers, the words just loud enough for him to hear. Many people skate on the oval-shaped floor, enjoying their lives and having a good time. Through some flashing lights, Finch sights a dark-haired girl smirk cockily at a lanky young man each time she passes him up on the rollerblades. "Look! There's Clove and Marvel." Finch points over to the two.

Cato peers at the duo as if they are a tourist attraction. A deep laugh amounts from his throat when Clove almost falls.

"Come on," he motions to a table by the skating area. "Let's get some front-row seats."

Finch hesitantly follows Cato to the empty table, some people cutting between them to get to the arcade games. They end up sitting across from one another at the table. Finch makes certain to stare at anything except the handsome man across the tabletop.

Clove and Marvel finally calm down with attempting to outdo one another and actually start acting like they like each other. Clove skates directly before him, and he wraps his long arms around her torso area. The couple are whispering things to one another and smiling. They are obviously too encircled in one another to notice Cato and Foxface, who they pass by more than once without perceiving.

Their love is something that Finch once longed for, their love is something that she once had. Whether she wants the affection anymore or not is something that she doesn't even know.

"Did you want something to eat or drink?" Cato breaks the silence between them. The concession stand line is now short and offers quick business.

"No, thank you." Finch responds shyly. The redhead should really be skating, but she figures that she'll wait until Cato wants to. Not that she has to be attached to him by the hip here, but it's nice to not feel like a third wheel.

A disappointed look paints across his face, but he shrugs it off and leans back into his seat. Cato is staring off into the area where everyone skates for a while before he turns back to Finch with a smile.

"Wanna play I spy?"

"Sure," she answers. This is a game that she's good at, but it'll be much trickier with the neon lights flashing everywhere. Finch likes a challenge. "You can go first."

Nodding, Cato looks around the whole center to pick out what his thing or person will be. Finch is certain to follow his gaze; whichever direction he chooses from will be the direction that his object or person will be. But Cato seems to have few tricks, seeing as he looks up at the ceiling when he begins. "I spy something wearing stripes," he says, then looks at Finch. The ceiling definitely isn't striped.

Eyes squinted, Finch peers around at the people skating. Clove has taken the advice Cato gave and is wearing a baggy sweatshirt and shorts: no stripes. Marvel wears jeans and a blue jacket. "Him?" Finch motions toward a boy wearing a striped shirt, the lines navy blue and white.

Cato shakes his head and smirks.

The actions are continued when Foxface points to another striped item moments later. The pattern is continued and continued, and Cato smirks wider and wider, and Finch finally sits back in exhaust.

"You give up?" Cato questions with a heaved eyebrow.

"Yes," replies the redhead, itching to know what she has been missing all this time. It has to be something small, something easily overlooked ...

"Him." Cato points up to a person standing up where the music being played is controlled.

"Oh, my gosh."

Finch turns around quickly, but she has already met eyes with the male. It was as if electricity ignited and flew between their glimpse. It was as if memories flew telepathically between them. Memories that she has been trying too hard to forget, too hard to throw away forever. The male is wearing stripes, though. Thresh is wearing stripes.

"Holy shit, he's coming over here." Cato announces. "Maybe he's pissed that we pointed at him."

"Oh, my gosh." Finch repeats the words again, feeling as if she's about to puke up bile.

How could she not know that Thresh worked here? How could Clove not know? Then again, on deeper thought, Clove has always wanted Foxface and Thresh to make up and get back together. With a hurtful pang, Finch realizes that the conniving minx knew what she was doing. Why do things like these happen? Can't they stay in cliché movies?

Empty stomach tethering with tension, she takes an unsteady breath. Finch realizes that Cato is saying something, but she can only see his mouth moving. "That's my ex-boyfriend." The sentence gets Cato to stop talking, his mouth forming an _O_.

"Well, damn." Cato manages before Thresh is standing before their table.

_Be polite_, Finch demands herself internally. _There is nothing wrong with being friendly._

"Hey, Finch." This is definitely Thresh; a deep, intimidating voice. It comes with his muscular, intimidating build. Finch realizes that he and Cato are much alike in physical presence, but that's where their comparisons stop. Thresh is dark-skinned and Cato has milky skin. Thresh has dark brown eyes and Cato has ice-cold orbits. "Long time, no talk."

"It has been a long time." Finch confirms with a vague nod and meek smile. "H-How've you been?"

Thresh shrugs, bringing attention to his broad shoulders. The skating rink uniform he wears clings tightly around his broad shoulders and strong arms. Finch used to be held protectively by those arms. Those are the arms she wished would never let go, never give their warmth to another. "I've been chilling ... Just got a job here."

"I'm sure Rue loves that."

"Yeah." Thresh chuckles at the mention.

The memories are really beginning to flood in now, their mental images crashing down upon Finch like waves crash down upon a seashore. The mental memoirs portray the three — Foxface, Rue, and Thresh — hanging out at the beach or laughing together on a couch. Happiness dwells within those vivid memories, but despondency is all Finch can feel at the moment.

The rapid, loud song change is what shakes the remembrances. Finch descends back to the reality that is pop music, teenagers attempting to grind on rollerblades, and flashing lights. The young woman misses the memories even more.

"So who's your friend?" Thresh asks, looking at Cato.

"Oh, uh," she looks at Cato to see him smiling lightly at Thresh. The look on his face reads uninterested. "This is Cato. He and Clove are stepsiblings."

"Yeah, I thought I saw Clove skating around with Marvel." Thresh nods and gazes off into the skating area. Someone from where the music is being controlled calls him, shifting his squinted gaze. "I should get back to work now ..." Thresh trails off, obviously angry that he can't talk any longer. "It was nice seeing you again."

"Yeah." Finch agrees blankly.

"We were actually about to get to skating," Cato decrees, standing up from the table. _We were? _Finch thinks, _I didn't even get my turn at I spy yet. _"Play a nice song for us?"

Disdain flickering in his dark eyes, Thresh considers the request and eventually nods. The dark-skinned male is then heading back to his job without another word. Something inside Finch almost wants to call out to him, to fall back into his muscular arms, to be coaxed by his velvety voice. A minty scent snaps the redhead away from those effective volitions.

Cato chews the gum in his mouth slowly, his eyes wandering toward the counter where skates are being sold. Apart from some people by the counter who are returning their rollerblades, the line is nonexistent.

"So we really have to skate now?" Foxface asks shyly.

"Well, if you don't want to miss the song." Cato winks, then starts toward the counter. Finch is glad that he can't see the redness that's doubtlessly painting across her cheeks.

The two get their skates from the man working at the counter and then sit at a table to put them on. Legs shaking, Finch rises from the table when she has the wheels on. Cato, who is already standing with his rollerblades on, helps the young woman find some balance. Blushing even harder and thanking Cato quietly, she starts toward the smooth oval that people skate on.

Neon lights illuminate the floor, the glows polka-dotted or shaped miscellaneously. It's as if the skating rink basks beneath a sun-sized disco ball. Through some flashing lights, Clove and Foxface meet eyes. The gothic Rapunzel smiles, but the beam disappears in a flash when she sees Cato.

Rage evident, Clove whispers something to Marvel and starts toward the two.

Even though she knows that she should be angry, Finch can only feel hurt and a bit betrayed by how Clove set this date up. Clove knows how much it pains Finch to think about — yet alone _see _— Thresh. If a best friend can't respect that, who will?

"What the _fuck _are you doing here?" Clove hisses when she's standing before the two. Marvel approaches from behind his girlfriend, sneaking a friendly wink at both Cato and Foxface. Cato flashes him a guilty grin.

"Skating," he answers nonchalantly. "Trying to, at least."

Annoyance adorns Clove like ornaments dress a Christmas tree. If looks can kill, Finch decides, Cato would be rotting away in the nearest cemetery. Clove is always a bit too brutal when it comes to cruel stares.

"You are such an annoying fuck." Clove murmurs the sentence as if she's finding out about a machine that could destroy the world.

No one seems to know what to say after that, seeing as Cato shrugs nonchalantly and Marvel is trying to conceal his laughter. Finch wants to shrink away from them all, because they are drawing attention their way. Finch can see pupils peering their way through the flashing lights. Many girls skate by and gaze admiringly at Cato or Marvel, but Finch gets a taunting feeling that they are internally wondering why the two attractive men are standing anywhere near her ugliness.

It's a great question, though. Why has Cato willingly talked to Finch all this time? Wasn't he flabbergasted with disgust from seeing the redhead the other day, the day they first met?

Foxface exhales deeply, trying to make the negative thoughts disappear. Sometimes, she really does believe that she could be a schizophrenic. But the doctors confirmed that she wasn't plagued with the mental disorder.

"Thresh works here." Unable to think to say anything else, she allows the words to spill amongst the small gathering. Finch sees right through the shock Clove attempts to portray. "Why?" When Clove doesn't dive further into the conversation, she forces the trembling question.

At that moment, Clove doesn't even attempt to lie anymore. The fragile, child-like tone Finch sports isn't something she seems to be willing to face.

The four college-age kids grow still and speechless. Cato and Marvel are looking at the two young women before them as if a fight is about to break out and they'll have to break it up. But that's not what Finch wants at all (Clove would definitely win). What the redhead wants is to know why Clove went this far as to get Thresh back into the broken picture. Is the despondence she feels that evident in the daily routine she carries out?

"Can we talk about it later?" Clove begs. "I just really wanted us all"—she flashes a venomous glare at Cato—"to have a good time tonight."

"Yeah," Finch nods. "You all can stay, but I think I've had my fun for the night."

"Foxface, stay." It's now Cato who speaks, which urges a surprised look from everyone. "We didn't even get to skate yet," he frowns.

"Yeah," Clove eyes Cato warily, "and you'd make me feel like a total bitch if you left."

"Don't. You'll make _me_ feel horrible." Finch responds hoarsely. _More horrible than I'm usually feeling_, she adds mentally.

After another argument or two, Clove finally accepts the fact that Finch has no intention on staying. The minx frowns and hugs the redhead goodbye, insuring that she is extremely sorry and that she still needs a ride to yoga on Friday. Marvel gives Finch a quick goodbye before rushing back out onto the floor with his girlfriend.

Cato still stands beside the yoga teacher, his shoulders slumped and eyes flickering with disappointment. Finch thinks she sees another emotion in the stunning orbits: anger.

"I'll walk you to the door," he offers.

Nodding reluctantly, Finch first takes off the rollerblades she's wearing and returns them to the man at the counter. The redhead is then meandering toward the exit door.

Everything just seems distant and surreal to Finch at the moment. The door seems miles upon endless miles away, but it opens when she reaches out to touch it. The sickly-looking lady working the front room seems like an illusion, but she can hear the woman's fingers tap impatiently against the smooth counter. Finch doesn't know if it's the shock, the hurt, or the fact that she hasn't eaten anything lately.

Shock doesn't sit well with an empty stomach.

_Home. Get there. Now. _

"I'm sorry that you can't stay." Cato sighs, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Me, too," she replies abstractedly.

"You owe me a skate." Cato grins, then it disappears almost seconds later. "Shit, that sounded weird. Did you get that?"

There's that burning sensation in her cheeks again.

"I got it." Finch stifles a laugh and stares down at the floor.

Silence encircles the two. The only thing making noise in the front room is the skinny lady drumming long fingers against the counter.

Finch wishes that she could be as skinny as the annoyed employee, she even wishes that she could be as attractive as the woman. Well, the woman isn't exactly _attractive _— she looks a bit like a drug addict — but she isn't completely hideous. The lady's narrowness makes up for the tired features she attains. While admiring the way her arms resemble toothpicks, Finch hears her stomach rumble with need.

_Home! Get there! Now!_

"Bye, Cato." Finch stumbles out before exiting in a rush.

The redhead hates it when her stomach roars with famine. People start to figure out things; things that are meant to be treasured like a precious diamond. No one else can find out about the purging, the anti-food lifestyle she lives, the scarred past she has lived through. Thresh knows, but he's not around anymore. Finch is attempting to _forget _him, and she's certain that all he remembers is hearing his ex-girlfriend cough desperately into a toilet bowl. Clove knows, but she's slowly morphing into an antagonist. How could she try to make Finch remember the man she's attempting to leave in the past?

There is no one else to turn to anymore.

Finch sometimes wonders if there is even something to _live _for anymore.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed the Chapter, beautiful readers! Reviews would be lovely. **


	5. Five

_Bythos_

"_Your head will collapse,_

_But there's nothing in it,_

_And you'll ask yourself,_

_Where is my mind?"_

—_Where Is My Mind?_, The Pixies

* * *

**Cato**

Cato groans and turns away from the clear door once Foxface is too far away to see.

Why does he have to say the stupidest things? _You owe me a skate. _He mentally kicks himself in the dick for that one. Well, as long as he didn't say anything that he'd say to the usual chick he found attractive. But _this _attraction is different beyond belief. The attraction he feels toward other chicks is simply a sexual longing. Of course, he also feels that hunger toward Foxface, but it's dissimilar.

If he were here at the skating rink with Glimmer, he'd probably tell the blonde that he wanted to fuck her. All Cato wanted to tell Foxface was that she's beautiful and humble and so damn adorable when she blushes! _Shit, I need to stop._

Trying not to laugh at how irritated the drug-addicted lady at the front desk looks, Cato moves through the small room and back into the skating rink. He hasn't been skating in a long time, and he doesn't plan to anymore. There's no reason to go act like a cocky bastard now that Foxface is gone. Cato figures that he might as well go return the skates and leave.

There's a chocolate cheesecake waiting at home for him, too. It's calling his name. Its voice sounds something like Foxface.

_I am definitely going to Hell_, Cato thinks and tries to make the dirty thoughts about the redhead disappear. That's almost impossible, though, considering that the polka-dotted shorts she chose to wear tonight nicely outlined her ass. _Yep, Hell is the place for me. _

Cato takes off his skates and brings them back to the high-looking guy working the counter. The kid looks something like Shaggy from _Scooby-Doo_.

The pop song finally ends and the music genre is changed. The new song is firstly foreign to Cato, but he recognizes it when the lyrics start. This isn't the music genre he usually listens to — he indulges in rock and screaming in his ears — but the lyrics are fitting to his Bohemian lifestyle.

_I left my girl back home._

_I don't love her no more. _

The vagabond plops down at an empty table, ignoring the girls who are probably mentally undressing him and trying to figure out who sings this song. It's some rapper, he remembers, and groans to himself. Cato can't stand rappers. They are either too cocky, too sexual, or too tattooed. That's saying a lot when it's coming from a person like Cato.

One subject swells his thoughts and senses: Foxface. The ever-so intriguing yoga instructor is the first girl Cato has ever come across to make _him _feel apprehensive. Honey-like eyes and a fox-resembling face, red hair and rosy cheeks: the features flash around his brain. Beauty just oozes from the vixen. But where all the beauty comes, there comes one flaw: weight. Why is she that skinny? High metabolism?

Cato wonders why he's even bothering with all this. It's not like she'll throw herself at him like every other chick does. It's not like Cato will be living here forever; he's already making plans to leave again. Where he's going? Not even he can answer the query.

The thoughts about Foxface still plague his brain, though. Autumn and spearmint fragrances heap his nostrils. Cato wonders if it's just his imagination or if the scents still linger about the skating rink air.

Acting on impulse, he pulls out his iPhone and goes to the Instagram App. Cato needs to see the redhead _now_. Only if it's to stare at a picture (he has to keep reminding himself that he's at a skating rink). Cato goes to the picture where she's wearing that blue dress and studies it, the lyrics to _Wicked Games _still playing in the background.

_Just let me motherfucking love you ..._

* * *

Cato is walking to his truck ten or twenty minutes after Clove and Marvel leave. It was already dark outside when he got here, so it's practically pitch-black now. The only things that illuminate the night are the skating rink lights, the moon, and Hooters across the street. Cato considers going to the sports club and downing a few drinks, but he knows that he'll only end up wallowing in self-pity.

What is it about Foxface that makes him this uneasy? Cato tries to convince himself that it's only her ass, but it can't be. There is much, much more to this vixen that meets the eye. Foxface is like a puzzle with a million pieces, and Cato wants to put it together one-by-one _now_. He can't stand the thought that he's missing out on something important.

As he rounds the building corner to get to his truck, he spots another thing that illuminates the night.

Propped against the brick building, Thresh takes a lengthy drag on a cigarette and blows out a perfect circle. The dark-skinned male murmurs something to the guy standing next to him. Even though it's dark outside, Cato knows that Thresh is staring directly at him. It doesn't intimidate him in the least bit; he's actually a bit pleased.

"I thought you were working." Cato makes a comment first.

Thresh takes another drag on his cigarette and shrugs. "On break," he replies.

A bit tired and seeing that the conversation is going to waste his time, Cato turns away and continues toward his truck. The chocolate cheesecake in the refrigerator at home is still calling his name. Yes, it still sounds like Foxface.

"Be careful with Finch," Thresh speaks up, halting Cato in his tracks. The blonde slowly turns on his heels, a smirk creeping across his lips. "Gets heartbroken pretty easy."

The blonde scoffs, "Whose fucking fault is that?"

The male standing next to Thresh widens his eyes in shock, the white ring around his irises standing out against the black night. As if expecting Thresh to retaliate violently, he steps aside and looks back and forth between his friend and Cato. Thresh only chuckles darkly at the vagabond. After blowing one last smoke circle, he drops his cigarette to the ground and buries its light beneath his shoe.

"You don't know anything about Finch, do you?" Thresh seems very pleased at this.

This is true: Cato knows little to nothing about the shy redhead. But he does know that she's attractive, modest, and giving. Foxface is everything that he has never had. Foxface is everything that he wants. According to Clove, she is everything that he can't have. But Clove can't keep him away, so he'll be damned if an ex-boyfriend tries.

"No," he answers with clenched teeth. "But I plan on spending the rest of my time here finding out."

As if this was the most obvious thing in the world, Thresh nods vigorously and chuckles again. The dark-skinned male whispers something to his friend, who laughs at whatever his words are.

"Oh, that's right." Thresh nods again. "You move some place, meet some random girl, get into her pants, then leave. That's how you live your life now, right?"

Cato freezes at the words. Freezing is better than wincing, he supposes. Wincing would suggest that he regrets living his life in the way Thresh just translated. The burning words are true: Cato does do those things to girls. But it's only what they expect him to do. They throw themselves at him and he gives them what they want. Why does a commitment have to come with that? If they are going to act like the skanks they are, then that's precisely how he will treat them.

Just because this is accurate, though, doesn't mean that some random guy can degrade him for it.

"Why don't you ask your mom?" Cato, known for making smart-ass comments and clever comebacks, says the first thing that pops into his mind.

Fury controlling their actions, the two males who lean against the brick building storm over to Cato. Thresh pushes his friend aside — forceful, Cato notices, and wonders if this is why he and Foxface broke up — and braces himself up to the blonde. Cato can feel steam shooting from his nostrils, but it doesn't faze him in the least.

People need to stop fucking with him about his lifestyle.

"_What _did you just say?" Thresh demands in a deep tone. It's a challenge; a challenge that Cato refuses to decline.

"I said I fucked your mother."

That does the trick.

Cato feels a fist collide with his jaw and his lip split. Stumbling back at the blow, Cato coughs blood and feels the coppery fluid trickle down his chin in a rivulet. The blonde looks up to see a fist flying toward his eye the mere moment before it strikes its target. Cursing, Cato spins in a dysfunctional circle and loses his balance. The blonde crashes to the concrete ground and lets out another muffled expletive. The world feels like it's spinning around him and he's not doing anything to stop it.

If he wanted to, he could kick Thresh and his friend shitless without breaking a sweat. Fighting is something that he's always been good at. Never has he backed down from a physical altercation and never has he lost one. This fight is different, though. Cato isn't going to fight back this time.

Leisurely, Cato gazes up to see Thresh and the other guy looking down at him with disgusted stares. The moon peaks through the spaces between their bodies, its incandescent light faintly hitting Cato.

"What's wrong, boys?" Cato smirks weakly through the split lip and bloody mess. "Is that all you have, you dickless shitheads?"

They both release their rage on him now. As if they had planned these moves in advance, the unnamed male pulls Cato up by his arm only to have Thresh punch him back to the ground. Cato can feel the concrete scratching miscellaneous patterns on his pale skin. Everything stings like Hell, but Cato can ignore the pain for now.

Kicks are sent to his side. Punches are delivered to his face. Saliva is spit down upon his battered body.

It takes Cato all his self-control to not stand up and kill these assholes. Oh, how he'd make them suffer. Cato is a bit afraid that if he started to fight against them, he wouldn't be able to stop himself. It doesn't matter, though; he's allowing them to have their fun for his own selfish reasons. Reasons that will surely attract a certain vixen's attention.

Soon enough, pain starts to swell over him. Thresh sends a strong blow to his cheekbone, a shiver-inducing cracking sound splitting through all the angry grunts and sharp obscenities. The already-gaping wound widens at the punch. Cato can feel everything — the throbbing and agonizing pulsating. Even his ear is bloody by the time Thresh and his friend ebb away.

"Shit, man," mutters the nameless guy. "He looks terrible."

"Not much different from before." Thresh shrugs and tugs at his sleeve. "Come on, let's get back inside."

Without any concern, the pair turn away from the injured body on the ground and stride back to their job. If he weren't feeling like Hell, Cato would laugh at the situation. Just a half-hour ago, he was smiling coolly at Thresh as he caught up with Foxface; he is now wincing on the stone ground in utter agony due to Thresh and his merciless blows.

Grunting in discomfort, he slowly turns his body and supports himself on his bare hands and knees. The male takes a minute to steady his breathing pattern. It's not until Cato coughs that he realizes that his mouth is filled with blood. The metallic-tasting liquid sprays against and distorts the blackish ground.

Wanting to leave before he is seen and the cops are called, Cato fights against his throbbing body and stands up. His normal breathing pattern is gone again by the time he gets to his truck. Cato knows that he'll be feeling like shit within the next few days. The outcome will hopefully be worth it.

Cato knows that he probably shouldn't be driving in such a fragile state like this, but he presses his key into the ignition anyway. The black truck roars awake and the radio blares on. Not wanting any distractions, Cato mutes Linkin Park — which hurts him more than any punch or kick — and tries to get comfortable in his seat.

It takes him minutes to get home, but it feels like endless hours.

_Please let Clove be somewhere else with Marvel_, Cato starts to mentally pray. _Please let Brutus and Cashmere be having sex in their room. _The last thing Cato wants at the moment is attention.

Murmuring one final prayer, Cato slides his key into the front door and pushes the wooden rectangle open. As soon as he takes a step into the house, he regrets it.

"Holy Hell!" Clove screeches and jumps up from the couch. Cato ignores his stepsister, closes the front door, and paces down the hallway. "What happened? Cato, what happened? Cato!" Clove follows the blonde down the hallway, but Cato steps into the bathroom and slams the door before locking it. The chick keeps screaming from the other side, but he ignores it.

Damn, she is irritating and nosy.

Cato looks at himself in the bathroom mirror and growls. What he sees in the mirror is Frankenstein, not his usual Adonis-looking self. His left eye is completely swollen shut. A deep, fleshy gash about an inch long takes up his cheekbone. Half his face is scraped and scratched from the concrete ground. Blood still lingers on his torn bottom lip. _Shit_, the blood is everywhere.

The male turns on the faucet and splashes cold water onto his mistreated face.

"Cashmere, something happened to Cato!" Clove calls from outside the bathroom door.

_Brutus, your daughter is a bitch._

Knowing that he needs a shower and that it will make Clove go away, Cato turns on a cold spray and proceeds to strip off his clothes. Everything hurts as he peels each piece off with as much delicacy as he can muster.

Sighing with relief, he finally gets everything off and steps into the chilly spray. The cold water will help numb his body, numb away the pain and stinging, and then he'll be able to sleep without having to worry about not shifting around in his slumber. Cato scrubs at his flaxen-colored hair, the shower water pooling and swirling red around the drain. Cato expels an exasperated breath, his side aching from the countless kicks. Thresh is an asshole; those blows were highly unnecessary.

The male stands beneath the water until his teeth are chattering. Turning the spray off and stepping away from the shower, Cato grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist. Cato wonders if Clove still waits outside the door. As annoying as she is, she would be a good person and stay there all night to make certain that he was all right. Clove can't know about it this time, though.

Trying to be confident, Cato opens the bathroom door to find no one lurking about the hallway. Cato quickly sneaks to his room and shuts the door. A thankful outbreath trails past his lips. As soon as the relief starts, it finishes. Cato curses at the realization that his phone is still in his jeans, which sprawl across the bathroom floor.

_You can get it in the morning_, he thinks to himself. The thought drives him insane. Cato wants — maybe it's not a want; maybe it's a _need _— to take one last look at Foxface before he slips between the sheets. The picture can call comforting, vivid dreams upon him. Dreams that can morph into fantasies. _This can't be healthy_, he rumbles internally.

_Knock, knock, knock. _Cato almost jumps at the thumps on his closed door. There's Clove with all the aggravating meddling again.

"Cato, honey!" Cashmere sounds from the other side, voice laced with mother-like concern. _Knock, knock, knock. _"Clove told me that you didn't look all right ... Can you open the door, baby?"

Cato groans and presses his forehead against the wooden door. Why can't they all just leave him alone? The obnoxious knocks sound on the door again and Cato hits his head against it in reply.

"Tomorrow," he promises. "Let me get some sleep."

"Open the door or I'm eating your chocolate cheesecake in the fridge."

Without reluctance, Cato swings the door open and Cashmere gasps at seeing the wounds on him. Not wanting Clove to come running this way, Cato yanks his mother into the room and shuts the door. Cato turns to face his mother after he swiftly locks the door.

"What happened?" Cashmere holds out hands to gently hold his face, which is swollen and scarred.

"No Brutus and no Clove." Cato states his terms first. Telling Cashmere is making a sacrifice; there's no way that he's allowing the story to spread to Brutus and Clove. If Brutus learns that he actually allowed two guys to beat him senseless, Brutus will only finish him off. Clove is just annoying and will never let it go.

Cashmere sighs and settles down onto his bed. "I don't keep secrets from my husband, Cato." she lies, playing with the velvety comforter sprawled across the king-sized bed.

"You're going to have to this time." Cato growls, rolling his eye that's not swollen shut.

The blonde-haired woman hesitates few moments before finally giving into the proposition. Cato settles down beside his mother and his first inclination is to lie. How is he supposed to tell Cashmere the bitter truth? _I taunted this chick's ex-boyfriend to get her attention. _Cashmere would think that he was on drugs. The woman makes a sharp, impatient noise.

"I turned down the wrong building, that's all." It isn't the most fabricated lie he's ever told.

"No bullshit." Cashmere snaps.

Cato knows that she won't take bullshit, especially his. Feigning defeat, he sighs and runs a hand through his wet hair.

"Well, there's this girl ..."

"You did this to impress a girl?" Cashmere obviously wasn't expecting this, voice faltering.

"No, not exactly. Maybe. I don't know." Cato can't help but chuckle at how confused he is about all this. The Cato who used to fuck a girl and leave as a daily routine is now stammering on about one redhead who catches his eye. "I mean, we don't even really know each other, but there's always that ... _feeling _when we see each other. Do you get what I'm saying?" _Shit, I'm a hopeless case_, he thinks.

"I believe so," Cashmere grins at the young man. "But you didn't get your attractive looks from nowhere. This girl, whoever she is, should be all over you! Why does it have to go to this length?" The woman motions toward the split lip and swollen eye, purple skin and hunched over figure.

"Clove." The answer is simple, but the most intricate thing Cato has come across. Why does she have to lock Foxface away from him? Why is she playing guard dog with the redhead? If she weren't so disgustingly in love with Marvel, he would consider that she had something for the vixen. "Clove doesn't want me anywhere near Foxface."

At the name mention, Cashmere goes pale. Cato can view the utter shock swimming in the twinkling blue eyes she has.

"The girl you're talking about is Finch?" Cashmere needs this to be confirmed. "Red hair, pale skin tone, extremely skinny?"

A nod is what he responds with.

Why is she acting this surprised about it? Cashmere must have thought that he was still going after whores like Glimmer, Cato figures. Those wasteful days are over now. Change can't be too hard, can it? Sure, he'll miss the one-night stands and friends with benefits, but it'll all be worth it when Foxface is his. Cato doesn't even know why he wants the redhead this badly, but every time he sees the impossible beauty, the moment is ... _memorable_.

It's as if the overtly-sexual douchebag in him disappears when she's around. It's like she makes him a better douchebag.

"Well," Cashmere sighs and stands up. "I hope everything works out for you." There is no sincerity in the sentence.

Just as she is exiting the room, Cato halts his mother. "One last thing," he requests, searching around his room for his plaid pajama pants. Cashmere looks at him with lifted eyebrows. "Can you bring me my phone? It's in my jeans on the bathroom floor."

There is no way in Hell that he's going to sleep without looking at Foxface one final time.

* * *

_Cato jolts his eyes open when his room door bursts open and loud noises rattle into the room. What the Hell is Clove up to now? Sitting up and murmuring swearwords, the blonde massages his eyes to adjust to the now-bright light illuminating the room. Cato freezes completely when he realizes that the person in the room with him isn't Clove. _

_Foxface pushes a silver table on wheels to his bedside, face focused on the medical bag on the surface. The redhead unloads the carrier: disinfectant, anesthetic, suture kit, forceps. But Cato is too busy paying attention to what she wears to wonder why she's brought all this stuff and why she's even in here with him._

_The fox is wearing some short, white, leather-like dress that clings to every curve. The dress is unbuttoned at the top, showing off tempting cleavage that is brushed over by red hair. The outfit looks like something that a skank would wear on Halloween, but Cato isn't complaining. All he wants to do is push the red hair away from his nice view and rip the costume off entirely. _

"_F-Foxface?" Cato murmurs, having just enough self-discipline not to attack the chick. _

_Suddenly, she is sitting on the bed and has an index finger pressed against his lips. The redhead pushes him back down into his laying position. "Hush." she commands and studies his bottom lip. Foxface shifts the position she's in and straddles his waist in an attempt to get a closer look. "You were attacked."_

"_Something like that." Cato gulps._

_As if someone said something funny, she laughs quietly. "Something tells me you provoked this confrontation." _

Yes, _Cato thinks desperately. _I've been a naughty boy and need to be punished ...

_As if she can read his erotic thoughts, Foxface leans forward to bury her face in his collarbone. Cato can feel their pelvises lightly touching against one another, and all he wants to do is grasp those mouthwatering hips and pull their bodies even closer together. He is the pull — the magnetic force that wants them to be linked as one. She is the push — the particle that separates them away from each other for far too long. The push and pull of it all is driving him crazy, needy, _insane_. He is the dying patient and she is the naughty nurse that can save him._

_Almost as innocent as a child, she breathes softly into his warm skin. It's as if she waits for him to tell a bedtime story. _

"_Why did you provoke the confrontation?" Foxface speaks before he can stammer out his mesmerized words. _

"_A girl." The answer is short and vague, but Foxface nods in agreement. _

"_Well," she curtly sits up and Cato already misses the soothing breathing on his skin. "This girl won't be too happy when she sees you all bruised and battered."_

_The bruises and scars lead halfway down his stomach. Foxface runs a considering finger over each one; an underlying promise that she will tend to and care for each._

_Cato feels completely healed under the glowing presence. Feeling as if he's on cloud nine, he tilts his head back onto the pillow and murmurs relaxed words at feeling a soft finger run along his toned stomach. The finger traces every line on his chest and stomach; the defined abs, the diversely-shaped bruises, the scraps and scars from the concrete. The blows from violence morph into traces from sweet passion. _

_The finger trails down to his waistband and pauses.  
_

_The anticipation eats at Cato. Playing naughty nurse again, the vixen brushes herself over his blatant desperation. It's almost as if she pleases to tease and torture him. Giving into enticement, he grasps Foxface by the hips and wishes that the skimpy dress weren't acting as a border between them. Cato tugs at the leather. _

"_The girl would be upset about this, no?" Foxface questions, lips parted seductively and eyelashes batting like a butterfly's wings. The naughty nurse grabs the waistband to his pajama pants and slowly pulls it down, waiting for his answer. _

"_I think she'd be perfectly fine with this." Cato promises._

_Smirking, she yanks the plaid pants down to reveal his desire. "Well, well, well," Foxface leans over to brush their lips together, managing to rub their most impassioned areas against one another in the process. "We'll have to see about that ..." _

"... Your ribcage could be broken, so we'll have to see about that. Are you going to tell me what happened, though? Cashmere, for once, isn't going to squeal." Cato startles awake from his blissful trance, making Clove jump back a few feet and shriek out a cussword.

_Dammit, it was just a dream_, Cato thinks. It's not that difficult for him to believe in the long run. There is absolutely no way that Foxface is that kinky and Glimmer-like. Cato almost feels ashamed for fantasizing about the redhead in that demeaning manner. Almost.

"At least, we know that _one _body part still works." Clove comments, motioning down before darting into the hallway.

Cato looks down to see what Clove just gestured toward: his fantasy-induced hard-on. At least, his morning isn't starting off with pain.

* * *

**Reviews help Cato heal faster! I've given up being a review whore a while ago, but getting me to forty would make me very happy. Love you all nonetheless!**


	6. Six

**Big thank you to **_**tribute-parabati **_**for recommending this on Tumblr! **

* * *

_Bythos_

"_And I won't cry myself to sleep like a sucker,_

_I won't cry myself to sleep; if I do, I'll die,_

_I pray your life is sweet, you fucker,_

_Damn you."_

—_Damn You_, Lana Del Rey

* * *

**Foxface**

Finch wakes up in the morning to a growling stomach.

The dawn sun peaks past the curtains covering the windows, cleansing the master bedroom in pastel light. Finch stretches herself in the big, empty bed and does exactly what she did last night: ignores the rumbling. The young woman doesn't have to work today, so she can stay in bed and avoid the kitchen all day. It's not until tomorrow that she has to pass by the eating space. Finch yawns and reaches a hand to the bedside table, grabbing her sleeping iPhone.

Starting off the morning with Sarah Fimm doesn't sound like a bad idea.

When she presses the home button, she doesn't expect to find unread text messages. Neither does she expect to find them from Thresh. Of course, their unplanned confrontation last night would reignite these text messages. Thresh had constantly called and texted Foxface when they first broke up, but the calls went missed and the texts went straight to the cyber trashcan. The failed attempts to get back with the redhead died down after a few weeks. Of course, their talking last night would restart these annoying pleas.

The first text reads: _Your boyfriend is a little disrespectful. I'm glad I taught him a lesson for you. _The haunting text is ended with a smiley face. Eyes widening, Finch scrolls the screen down to read the other text: _Sorry if my last text seemed mean toward you, because that's not the case. Your boyfriend just pissed me off and I wondered if he talked like that to you. Text me back? _

Confused, she reads the messages over about three more times. What on Earth is Thresh talking about? Realization settling, Foxface gasps and drops the phone. _No, no, it can't be_, she beckons internally. _There is no way possible that _that _could have happened._

Afraid, she snatches the iPhone again and looks to see if there are any other unread text messages. Only one other text that's from Clove: _I know you probably don't know anything, but do you know what happened to Cato? _Foxface wishes that the details weren't that vague, because she truly has no idea what could be wrong with him, but the pieces are slowly fitting themselves together. As if fitting puzzle parts together, she rereads the messages from Thresh and Clove.

_Your boyfriend is a little disrespectful. I'm glad I taught him a lesson for you._

_I know you probably don't know anything, but do you know what happened to Cato?_

The puzzle is solved.

Now terrified, Finch jumps up from bed and changes into clothes that aren't pajamas. The thought that Thresh did to Cato what he promised — _taught him a lesson_, as he put it — drowns the redhead in an anxiety-filled pool. After struggling to get some athletic shorts on, she hurries to the bathroom to brush her teeth. As soon as the minty lather is spat into the sink, she is heading to the front door and leaving the house.

The sun in the sky is too happy and bright on an angst-ridden day like this. It only makes Finch more wary about how Cato is.

Aware that children run mindlessly around the streets, she drives slowly until she gets on an open highway. There is some traffic, but it isn't too unbearable. Finch wishes that the several cars would just disappear, that the red lights would hurry up and turn green. But life has its unpleasant ways to aggravate the redhead. The drive to get to Cato isn't too long, though.

As soon as she parks the car, she's practically running to the front door.

The thought that Cato is injured stimulates these edgy actions. _Stop freaking out_, she thinks and rings the doorbell twice. _You can be completely wrong and delusional about this. _

Clove opens the door moments later with a confused façade. "I was wondering who that could be this early in the morning," she says, the confusion disappearing. The dark-haired teenager allows Finch into the house. "What's up?"

"Cato." Clove immediately goes grim. "What's wrong with him?"

"I'm trying to figure out," she responds, falling back onto the couch. "He looks like total _shit_. All Cashmere told me was that there was some kinda physical altercation bullshit, but she won't tell me who the Hell did it. I don't even think she knows, though."

Hand shaking, Finch goes to the text messages from Thresh and hands the iPhone to Clove. "That should tell you who," she points toward the explanation-holding texts. Clove is gaping mere seconds later, and she hands the evidence back to the nodding redhead. "I have to see him." Finch declares and starts down the hallway.

Gasping, Clove scampers across the room and halts her.

"No, you probably don't want to see him now." she beckons. "I mean, the swelling has gone down a bit, but it'll upset someone like you."

Finch shakes her head in utter desperation.

"Clove, this has to do with me." she presses with the strongest voice she has used in a long time. The anticipation is gnawing on the young woman as if she's some chew toy. There is no possibility that she'll be leaving this house today without seeing Cato, without making certain that he's all right. Judging by the messages from Thresh, their fight may have revolved around her. Thresh did claim Cato as her boyfriend, which he is not, but that could be enough to provoke a match. "You have to let me see him. I'll feel horrible if I don't see if he's all right."

Considering this, Clove glares down at the floor. Each moment that passes is a moment wasted. Finch _needs _to know that Cato isn't terribly injured.

"Go ahead." Clove spreads an arm, gesturing down the hallway.

Internally jumping in triumph, she bounds down the hallway and quickly stops herself at the room door Clove motions to. Breath hitching, Finch pauses as she lifts a fist to knock on the door.

What if Cato doesn't want anyone to see him? What if he doesn't want to see her in particular? It's quite understandable, because she possibly is the reason why he got into the physical altercation. Furthermore, who would want to willingly see the hideousness she exudes? _No_, she thinks. _You can't think this way now. You need to see that he's okay._

Gulping, she knocks lightly on the door and then waits for his response.

"Go away, Clove!" Cato seems distracted.

"It's actually Foxface." Finch replies hesitantly.

"Oh, uh ..." There is some shuffling in the room. A comforter brushing against bed sheets, she recognizes the mundane sounds. "You can come in." Cato calls from the inside just after he clears his voice.

Taking a confident breath, she turns the doorknob and steps into the room. The first thing she notices when she walks in is that his eye is black and swollen. Each time she looks at a different body part, she views another flaw on his once-milky skin. Cato doesn't wear a shirt, so she can see scraps and purple distorts scattered across his flesh. It looks as if he'd be in pain each time he moves a muscle.

And _wow_, he has huge muscles. Cato has enormous biceps and a probing vein running down them. Finch follows his arm length and moves over to his stomach. _Abs like those should be illegal_, she thinks. The redhead can't help but feel as if she is invading on his privacy, but the blonde male doesn't seem to mind.

Cato gives a cheesy grin.

"I look like shit, huh?" he asks.

"I'm sorry!" Finch can't help but shriek out. The discolorations across his picture-perfect skin tone, the scratches covering half his face, the blackness around his cerulean eye: she can't help but feel as if she caused the wounds. Why does she have to ruin everything, ruin everybody? Can't she do anything right? "This is all my fault. T-Thresh, he —"

"This isn't your fault at all." Cato argues, swinging his legs to the bedside and standing up. The male starts to take slow, steady steps toward Finch. "I just said something I shouldn't have and provoked him. Don't think that it was your fault."

"What exactly happened?" she asks softly, wanting to reach out and touch his black eye. Cato is soon close enough for the redhead to do just that, but she refrains from it.

Cato pauses and rakes a hand through his hair, troubled. "I don't really want to talk about it now." he admits slowly. _Of course, he doesn't want to talk about it, you idiot! _Finch mentally scolds herself for questioning him. "When all this goes down, though," he points to his eye and the grazes on his face, "we can talk about it ... over dinner ..."

Confusion paints over the yoga instructor's face.

"Dinner?" she repeats, surprised. "Dinner with _me_? Together?"

Chuckling, he nods his head and shifts his gaze to the floor. "I was hoping so," he replies when he looks up again, blue eyes sparkling with hope. No, it can't be hope ... Why would anyone _hope_ to be seen in public with Finch? There is no way that someone would anticipate that; they would want to avoid it at all costs. "I mean, only if you want to."

"Well, I can't say no. I need to know what happened before it drives me insane." Finch answers expressionlessly. _I need to know how much yelling I'm going to have to give to Thresh._

A smile sweeps across his lips and she can swear that she sees happiness in his eyes.

"Great," Cato says. "This Saturday a good time?"

"Tomorrow is Friday ..." Finch states slowly. "You heal that quickly?"

Hesitation in his movements, he combs a hand through his blonde spikes again and nods. The hope in his glassy orbits seems to be vanishing, and Finch wonders if she offended him in some way.

"Saturday." she confirms, suddenly yearning to leave him alone.

Just as she turns to exit his room, she feels his hand grab hers. The touch sets the young woman on edge, bringing back those ferocious memories from earlier years. It takes a moment for Finch to register that this is Cato and he isn't about to do anything ruthless. Those cruel, manipulative days are long gone. Finch only wishes that the memories had stayed in the past.

"I just wanted to thank you," he clears his throat, "for coming to see if I was all right."

With that, their bodies are pressed together in a friendly hug. Finch almost gasps at being pressed against his warm, battered skin. Wondering if this embrace could be hurting his bruises, she only hugs him back tenderly. It's inevitable that she take in his scents again: peppermint and body wash. It takes ultimate self-control to not steal the deepest breath she can manage.

"No problem." Finch backs away from the hug after the moments turn into minutes.

The two exchange one last smile before she walks into the hallway, dumbfounded.

Just as she imagined, Clove is waiting eagerly in the living room, arms crossed and foot tapping against the rug. "That took a while," points out the dark-haired Rapunzel. "What did he tell you?"

"Nothing in too much detail." It is an honest answer.

"Right." Clove agrees, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Can we talk outside?"

"Of course." Finch nods and tries not to seem intimidated. "I was just about to go back home anyway."

The friends start toward the front door. As soon as they are exposed to the summer air, Clove slams the door and turns to Foxface with squinted eyes. More than anything, the redhead wants to shrink away from the piercing gaze, but that would only lead Clove to think that she does has something to hide, which is not the case. Is it? Is a _hug_ scandal-attracting enough to want to conceal away from human knowledge?

"I want you to stay away from my stepbrother." Clove demands. "You're a sweet person and he isn't, and I don't want him to ... to ... Dammit, what's the word? Corrupt! I don't want him to corrupt you."

"Clove," Finch sighs and wishes that she didn't have to say this. But she feels a desperate need to defend Cato, to defend the only person who she hasn't been angry at lately. "Do you ever consider that Cato acts the way he does because that's what everyone expects? Cato _is _a sweet person, but you don't want to look past his bad side. I don't know him too well, but that's what it looks like from my perspective." Nonstop book reading has given the redhead a way with words and debate.

"_Your _perspective." Clove points out with a glaring tone. "You're right: you don't know him too well. You don't know him at all and he doesn't know _you _at all. Hell, there are some things that even _I _don't know about him and probably about you, too. But what I _do _know is that a douche like him doesn't deserve a nice girl like you. Okay?"

"Clove, I know that Cato is a player and has probably slept with more girls than there are stars in the sky." Finch sighs and can't help but feel bad at estimating the number. No one but himself knows how many girls he has slept with. It _could_ be a low number. "The thing is, though, he hasn't tried to make a move on me yet. And when ... _if _he does ... I'll decide how I want to deal with it."

Why are they even discussing this? Cato has absolutely no interest in the redhead. Without a doubt, he could get any girl he wanted. Why would he be interested in Finch?

"Foxface, please —"

"I have to go," the vixen decides. "I'll see you in the morning."

Before Clove can complain, she scurries to her car and quickly hops in. Sighing with relief, she gives one last wave before driving away. Why does Clove want to keep Cato locked away in his bad disposition? Why can't she see past his flaws and marvel at his kinder side? Cato does have a sweet side; Finch has seen it multiple times: at the skating rink last night, in his bedroom just few minutes ago. Is there a much more horrid side that she hasn't seen yet?

Suddenly, she wants to know more about him. All she knows is that he is the most photogenic person she's ever met and that he moves from place to place a lot. Finch has the abrupt urge to read him as if he were a mystery novel, to learn about his past and the places he has been. Has he lived somewhere outside the United States? Has he ever visited Paris? How does he, without a job, come up with the money to do these things? Did he ever live in his truck? The questions are endless, but she wants to know every single answer.

The only answers she will be learning soon, though, are the ones that piece together what happened between him and Thresh.

When Finch returns home, she almost wants to laugh at the irony she sees.

Thresh is _here_, at her house. Finch wants to think that she is imagining things when she sees his car parked on the street. Finch wants to think that she is imagining things when she sees him step down from his monstrous car. Finch knows that she is not imagining things when he waves toward the car she gapes in. A friendly, forced smile is on his face and she automatically knows that he is still troubled about whatever happened last night.

At least, she'll be finding out before Saturday. That doesn't mean that she will be cancelling the dinner plans with Cato, though.

Taking a yawning breath, she turns the car off and slowly steps out.

As she walks to the front door, Thresh follows. The male is very familiar with the house: inside and out. There was a time when he had practically lived in it. Finch swallows down the baleful memories, trying not to upsurge tears.

"Hey, Finch."

The redhead freezes just as she is about to put the house key into the lock.

"I know what you did," she murmurs it as if he murdered someone. "Why?"

Sighing, Thresh reaches out to touch his ex-girlfriend, but she swiftly flinches back.

"Can we talk about it inside?" Thresh propositions, drawing his hand back and motioning toward the door.

Foxface considers this request. The best that can happen is she learns about what happened and she doesn't have to deal with the curiosity until Saturday. The worst that can happen is they reflect on the past, mend things together. Even though those things sound good, they will unfold like Hell and it will all build up to ebb away in flames.

Knowing that she'll regret this later, she unlocks the door and walks inside. Thresh follows and she can hear him close the door behind himself.

Even though she is almost physically pained by it, she goes to the kitchen table rather than the couch in the living room. There is no way that she and Thresh are sitting on the sofa together. Who knows what he would try? Finch settles in the chair that doesn't face the refrigerator and pretends like she has eaten today. It's the only way to make the excessive growling die down. It's the only way to trick herself into thinking that she is not hungry.

Thresh scoots his chair closer to the one she sits in, sighing.

"How much did your boyfriend tell you?"

"Cato isn't my boyfriend." Finch corrects, placing her iPhone on the table. "I don't know anything, so you have to tell me."

Finch wants to slap the pleased smirk that spreads across his lips away. It unquestionably satisfies him that she isn't dating the blonde. Finch suddenly wishes that she had lied.

"Well," Thresh begins, "me and another guy were standing behind the rink building. Cato was walking to his car, he saw us, called me something very racist, and we started fighting. Explanation enough?"

_Enough for me to know that you're lying_, Finch wants to say. "I don't think Cato would do that." she murmurs slowly. There was never any indication that he was low enough to call someone out by their race. Cato doesn't even come across as that despicable type. Finch knows that she'll have to meet with him on Saturday to find out the real story.

"You don't know him, Finch." Thresh points out. The words are simple, but they prove a lot.

"What do _you _know about him?" Finch turns the metaphorical table on him.

Does _anyone _know the intriguing man enough to talk about him? Finch ponders if there is anything beneath his funny, kind exterior. Anything that he keeps on the inside and doesn't want to share with just anyone. Finch has burdens: the eating disorder and rough past. Everyone has something that separates them from the next person and swells their psyche with angst. Finch can only hope that Cato isn't dwelling on things that are even close to the difficulties that she battles with.

Thresh shrugs and slides a finger across the smooth table top. Foxface stares at him with confused eyes when he studies the index finger.

"You haven't eaten lately." The delivery blow to cause maximum emotional impact.

"W-What are you talking about?" Finch silently curses herself for stuttering. Why can't she be stronger about this? Why can't she just lie about it without feeling ripped apart on the inside?

"The table is dirty." Thresh extends a dust-coated finger toward the redhead. "You haven't eaten lately."

Unable to find a response, she just stares at the finger. Thresh sighs a little before wiping his dusty finger on his shirt. Finch breathes more heavily when his hand reaches out to comb through her bedraggled hair. If this were any other situation, she knows that she would wince away from the touch. At the moment, though, the young woman needs the comfort. The care. The same coziness that she once was surrounded by, enveloped in.

Dark eyes filled with pity, Thresh moves his gaze and finger over to her parted lips. The male traces his thumb around her pink edges and admires the slight pout in her bottom lip.

Finch is about to ask him to stop, about to ask him to get out, but she is frozen. When she sees his dark lips inching forward, she knows that she's a goner. Their lips brush against one another in a slow, feather-light stroke. Finch can't control how her eyes flutter closed and her stomach rumbles with want. Need. Desire. More than anything, she wants Thresh to stop his conniving maneuvers and leave. Seeing as she feels herself moving closer to him, she knows that those things will not happen anytime soon.

It all happens too quickly.

The two jump up from their chairs and crash into one another. Finch momentarily wonders if she has broken a fragile bone, but that pondering moment vanishes in an instant. The redhead feels herself being lifted from the floor, and she coils lean legs around Thresh for support. Thresh cradles his muscular arms around his ex-girlfriend, and he presses them together so tightly that Finch wonders if he'll ever let go. Finch wonders if _she'll _ever let go.

No, she will. All this is is childish desperation and longing; the want which she shouldn't be feeding into. It's uncontrollable, though. It's unstoppable.

Their lips are pressed together in a feverish lock, their bodies glued together in a lust-filled desperation.

Just as stunned as she is, Thresh stumbles across the living room with Foxface still wrapped around his torso. It's not long before she feels herself being lowered onto the couch arm. Body propped onto the armrest from the waist down, she knows what to expect next. Thresh leans over to plant kisses along her jawline and moves down to suck a space on her neck. Breath jagged, Finch bites down onto her bottom lip and fights the moan rising up her throat.

Once he is certain that he has left a mark, Thresh straightens his posture and gazes down upon the redhead before him. The dark-skinned male stands between her dangling legs. Finch can faintly spot contemplation swimming around his eyes. Contemplation on what he will do first, how he will do it. Lust is the core feeling in the chocolate-colored eyes. The hesitation is enough to get Finch thinking about this situation.

Here she is: giving into temptation with an ex. The poorest thing a young woman with decent knowledge and self-respect could do. This is especially dirty when that certain ex is the exact person who beat someone you're interesting into senseless.

Involuntarily, Finch proceeds to think about Cato. About his smile. About his chuckle — the laugh that reveals his perfect, shiny teeth. About everything wonderful that is _him_. Cato is the person who broke the redhead into the habit to actually caring about how she looks. Long ago, Finch had learned to accept the fact that she was ugly and an utter disgrace to humanity. After it sunk it, she was never bothered or upset about it; it was simply a fact that she couldn't ever change. After meeting Cato, she can't help but care about how she looks around him. It's hypocritical and almost cruel. Why does Cato have to be so ... _different_?

Mind apparently made, Thresh drops to his knees on the floor and tugs on Foxface's athletic shorts. Finch hears herself gasp at predicting what he is about to do; the mere thought sends a heat wave through her entire body.

It starts to sink in more abysmally, though: this is wrong and they shouldn't be doing it. This is extremely classless and incredibly futile, and she has to discontinue what has played off since the last few minutes.

"Stop." Finch manages, whisper-soft and body trembling. Finch hoists herself up, head dizzy from leaning backwards on the sofa cushions.

Irritation written across his face, Thresh rises up from his knees and assesses this reaction. The tension in the living room lays thick in the once-cool air, making everything comfortable diminish into nothing. Thresh grasps Finch by the hips and scatters impatient kisses around her hairline. These are the caresses that she used to indulge in, that she used to cherish with ultimate pride. Finch attempts to convince herself that they are nothing now. When she thinks about Cato, about his million-dollar smile and humorous character, she can easily accept the fact.

Thresh is over and Cato is beginning.

Hopefully.

"Baby, I need you." Thresh groans, hands still gripping the redhead by the hips. "We both know that we're better off with each other." Each word is separated with a pepper-like kiss. "The only person that misses you more than me is Rue."

At that, Finch doesn't know how to respond. There aren't words extreme enough to describe how much she misses the doe-eyed child. Rue was the only person in the world who made Finch as happy and blissful as Thresh did. Rue reminded Finch that not everyone went through abuse and hurt during their supposed-to-be superb childhood. Foxface misses buying things (candy, mostly) for Rue, watching _Rugrats in Paris _with Rue, _everything _that involved the wonderful little girl.

Finch jumps back to reality when she feels a hand slithering its way into her panties.

"Thresh, stop." Foxface grabs him by the wrist and thrusts the hand away. Never has he been this forceful and touchy, so she surmises that his patient quality has melted away since they were last together, which was months ago. Quickly, she hops down from the couch leg and pulls the shorts she wore back on.

Their eyes somehow meet through all the tension and velocity: scared, honey-hued irises cemented to disappointed, coffee-colored circles. The entire room freezes; if there weren't the laughing children outside, Finch would believe that time has frozen. No, it's only them who are glued in this uncomfortable situation.

Abruptly, Thresh is storming toward the front door with the heaviest footsteps he can muster. Finch watches him cross the living room, mind buzzing and body still stuck in time. He places a hand on the doorknob, but pauses before he swings the door open and exits the house. Thresh slowly turns around and focuses his haunting gaze on his ex-girlfriend.

"When you realize that he's not what you thought he was," Thresh manages to make the words sound like a horror story, "you know where to find me."

With that, she is left standing alone. Cold. Confused.

What exactly does Thresh know about Cato, about his personality, his past? In some way, Finch is envious that he seems to know more about the vagabond than she does. Why can't she know everything about him? Why can't she read through him as if he were a mystery novel?

_No, stop worrying about him. It's not like he's is interested in _you_. _Foxface needs to remind herself these things before she gets too anxious and unsettled. Somehow, after the thoughts settle in, she knows that she is incorrect about them. Thinking about their talk and hug earlier, she can't help but blush and wonder if Cato _is _a bit interested.

Saturday will have to tell.

Still overcome by what just happened with Thresh, she lowers herself onto the sofa and steals a deep breath from the air. Just one minute ago, she was about to commence shameful acts with him ... _on the couch arm_. Finch mentally slaps herself for giving into the pressure, the seduction. Where is that smart, purposeful redhead that she used to be?

Adding to the frustration, her stomach grumbles with famine. Needing a distraction from how hungry she is, she paces to the kitchen table to get her phone. Its endless Apps, lulling music, and genuinely interesting LED screen will keep the young woman diverted from reality. Finch grabs the iPhone from the table and goes back to the suave couch, sighing with something that sounds like relief.

The first App she goes to is Instagram. Once she thinks about it, she still hasn't seen that picture Glimmer supposedly posted for Cato.

Before she can go search for it, though, she gets distracted by the notification page. There are only four unread notices; two from a username that makes Finch smile: _catorgasm_. How did he come up with something that clever? One notification alerts Foxface that he followed her and the other shows that he commented on a photo of hers. Whenever she sees that someone has commented on a picture she posted, she always grows scared and nervous. Did they point out a flaw? Did they make a rude remark? These worries are never the case, but she feels extra intimidated since the comment is coming from Cato.

It's on the picture where Clove and Marvel where at that restaurant, and Clove insisted that Foxface tag along. _Okay, it's not one of you. _Finch releases a breath that she didn't even know she was caging. _He can't tell you how ugly you look. _

The comment gives away a phone number and short side note: _Text me what time is best for you on Saturday. _

Finch blushes for some reason and saves the number. So she really wasn't imagining the dinner plans they vaguely made earlier. The hug has to have been real, as well. The comforting embrace was so peaceful, so elongated, that she felt like a daydreaming school girl again. Just as she feels calm and contented, an alarming thought pops into mind.

This Saturday, she will be going out to eat with Cato. _Eat. _No, she can't let herself start eating again; not until she _knows_ that she will actually _need _it. But how can she hide that from Cato, the other people in the restaurant, the waiter? Maybe she can eat a little and throw it up after ... Will she have the time to? Will anyone notice? Will there be anyone else in the bathroom?

The thoughts are infinite and nerve-racking.

Maybe she can eat a little and stop that obnoxious growling. Finch knows that if she starts to purge more regularly, she won't be able to eat at all without her system automatically chucking it up for her. Although the idea is somewhat appealing, she doesn't want it yet and isn't sure that she will be able to handle it.

But she is sure about one thing and one thing only: she cannot allow herself to degrade back into the person that she once was.


	7. Seven

**I am terribly sorry for the late Chapter. Hope its length makes up for it!**

* * *

_Bythos_

"_You always keep me guessing,_

_I never seem to know what you are thinking,_

_And if a girl looks at you ..._

_Yeah, for sure, you little eye will be a-winking._"

—_Spooky_, Imogen Heap

* * *

Finch almost doesn't want to pick Clove up the next morning. Not after their little disagreement yesterday and especially not after texting Cato for a while. The conversation was only about dinner on Saturday: they are going to a diner at eight, and Cato insisted that he would pick Foxface up. Just thinking about the texts makes the redhead nervous.

When she gets to his house, she doesn't rush to get to the door like she did yesterday morning. This time, though, Clove steps outside the house before she can even reach the doorstep. Clove really is making sure that she and Cato have no contact.

Finch wonders if her opinion on Thresh has changed since seeing those haunting text messages. Clove undoubtedly has been rooting for Thresh to get back with Foxface since the moment they broke up. She wonders why Clove takes that special fondness toward him. Is it because she seemed happiest with him? Finch cowardly decides not to bring it up.

"You're not bringing your yoga block today?" she asks lamely.

"Nope." Clove replies.

With that, the two head to the silver Sedan parked before the driveway.

Trying to make conversation, Foxface questions, "Is your car in the shop?" The redhead is just noticing that the white PT Cruiser isn't in the driveway anymore.

Clove groans at this question. There might be a possibility that she'll be needing a ride to yoga lessons next week, too. "Well, the damage repair price is a bit ... high. Of course, Cashmere is going to use that opportunity to suggest that I sell my car." The two get into the silver Sedan Finch owns and buckle up their seatbelts. "The bitch says that it doesn't make sense to have my own car when I can use Cato's. I bet she'll be buying me a new one when he leaves again. She makes me fucking sick."

Laughing softly, Finch starts the car and cruises down the street.

"Maybe she's conveying that she wants him to stay," she suggests thoughtfully. _Maybe I'm conveying that _I_ want him to stay. _"Cato might wind up staying here if you're using his truck."

"All the reason why I_ shouldn't_ use his truck. The fucker needs to leave. I wonder why he hasn't left yet." For some reason, she looks at Foxface when she says this.

Shrugging, Finch tries not to seem threatened by the assessing stare. "Maybe he likes being here with you and his mother." she supplies.

This causes Clove to let out an un-ladylike snort. "He went months without talking to us before," she points out. "I don't think we're the ones keeping him here."

Finch frowns at the road ahead, but doesn't respond. How could he go months without contacting his family, without seeing if they were all right and healthy, without letting them know that he was still alive? Finch wonders why for a moment, then realizes how hypocritical those questions are. The young woman has gone months without talking to her parents, but she has a plausible reason why. Maybe he does, too.

Cato is just a book she itches to read. But it's as if the words on his pages are fuzzy and jumbled due to mistreatment.

Foxface quickly turns the radio on when her stomach grumbles. _Okay, that's it_, she decides mentally. _You are going to eat tomorrow night. You have to. You can throw it up afterwards._

"So," Clove mutes the radio a minute later, "guess whose birthday is coming up?"

The redhead thinks about this question, but can't find the answer.

"Marvel." Clove smirks. Finch mentally kicks herself for not remembering. "We're thinking about having a party at his house, but it's not going to be some _Project X_ shit or whatever, but something cocktail-y."

"You two are too wild to have a classy party at his place." Finch jokes, pulling into the parking lot where the yoga studio is.

"Very funny." Clove replies sarcastically.

The pair exit the car and walk up to the transparent doors that belong to the yoga studio. Finch unlocks one door and they head inside.

Clove claims a green mat on the hardwood floor and goes into different yoga positions in between checking Facebook and Instagram. Dearly missing the haunting vocals, Finch plugs Sarah Fimm into the speakers and grabs a book: _The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo._ It's the same book that her Instagram username is inspired by. It's also the book—with its abuse-filled content and unsettling scenes—that reminds the sexual abuse victim of her rocky childhood. Before she can sit down in a beanbag chair, she quickly shoves the thick paperback back onto the shelf and claims another book. This one is _It_, written by the talented Stephen King.

Trying to go back to a calm state, she plops down onto the comfy beanbag and opens the book. It's almost impossible to stay calm while reading It, though, because it's about a killer clown who feasts on children. Finch remembers watching the film with Rue and Thresh, and Rue had to sleep in the bed with them that night.

Thoughts about yesterday start to fill her wandering mind. The more she thinks about just how close she and Thresh were to doing something unredeemable, the more she wants to penalize herself. How could she be that stupid, that enraptured? How could she be that needy for a man who did something unforgivable to poor Cato?

_Don't be a fool, Finch_, growls an internal voice. _Cato could be just as guilty as Thresh is._

The thought is intricate to digest, but true.

Giving up on reading, she slams the horror book shut and listens to _Counting Waves_.

"I kinda like this song." Clove admits.

Finch doesn't have the energy to reply, but she smiles.

Sarah Fimm eats up the silence with her sedative lyrics. Clove and Foxface don't speak for a few moments; the two simply enjoy the underappreciated melody while it swirls around the cavern.

After a while, Clove finally speaks up. "I didn't mean to come at you like that yesterday. I just don't think that you should attach yourself to Cato." This is the very conversation that Finch was dreading, and Clove just brings it up as if it's a casual chat.

Trying for indifferent, she shrugs and stands up from the plush beanbag chair. The yoga instructor settles onto the mat next to Clove and stretches her legs out before her. "I don't know why you're so worried about this." she admits, reaching out to touch her toes. "Cato isn't attracted to me in the least bit."

Even though he did come across as interested yesterday, she has decided not to jump to conclusions about his actions. If he isn't interested, life will certainly go on. Finch has thousands and thousands of novels waiting on be read and cherished. Books are things that she'd love to continue feeding her undivided love to. If he _is_ interested ...

"Good morning, lovelies!" Madge bursts in the studio with a Frappuccino.

Somehow relieved that she can't think anymore, Finch smiles at the blonde.

"Good morning. You're here early today." she responds, checking the time.

"Only five minutes." Madge shrugs, sitting down onto an adjacent yoga mat. "I've gotta leave early, too, though. I have to bring my dad to the airport." Mr. Undersee is the mayor and well-off in the political scheme, so he is constantly leaving the state to handle business.

The three continue to talk and get into yoga poses together. Finch stretches a leg over her shoulders and breathes out a calm breath. Although the position may seem uncomfortable and painful, she couldn't be more at peace. This is the wondrous tranquility that got the young woman to pursue yoga.

Few minutes later, the other students are showing up and talking about their weekend plans. Finch can only think about her own weekend plans while Katniss blushes about going out somewhere with Peeta. The redhead still can't believe that she is actually going out to dinner with Cato tomorrow night; even though it's only to find out what happened between him and Thresh. Finch doesn't know whether she can't wait for the dinner or if she is dreading it.

"Finnick needs to throw another party soon, because—holy shit!" Johanna shrieks, making the entire class jump. Finch looks at Johanna with a confused expression and is shocked to find that Johanna is staring right back, a smirk creeping across her small lips. "Who were you playing around with last night?" she asks bluntly, the smirk now shining.

"What are you talking about?" Foxface mutters, unknowing.

"You have a massive hickey on your neck," Johanna points. The other girls twist and turn their heads to see the purple mark she is motioning to, their mouths forming _O_ shapes. "You dirty fox, why didn't you tell us you're back in the game?"

_Thresh._

"I'm not _back in the game_." she presses. It isn't a lie.

"Okay, whatever you say." Enobaria cackles. "But we need details! Who was it?"

Before she can even reply (lie), the other yoga students douse the redhead in their pressuring questions. _Do we know him? Was the sex hot? How tall is he? Was the sex hot? Was it in a yoga position? How hot was the sex? _Finch shrinks back at each interrogation, trying to think up a believable lie while they are hopelessly distracted.

The more she thinks about it, though, the more she realizes that she shouldn't fib to them. One: they are all people she can trust. Not trust to the point where she can tell them about her abusive childhood (excluding Clove), but she can confide in them enough to let them know about what she and Thresh almost did yesterday. Two: they will know the difference between a lie and the truth. Judging by the last relationships some of these girls went through, they have been lied to enough.

"Okay, okay!" Finch sighs in defeat. This immediately silences the entire group, their eyes twinkling with interest and their lips pressed in thin lines. Finch timidly tells them what happened yesterday, carefully weaving around the story to not include Cato in it.

"So you didn't actually have sex?" Johanna is blatantly disappointed at the story ending.

"No." she promises. Foxface can't help but notice how pleased Clove looks at this—not at the not having sex part, but at the story in general. Clove definitely wants to see her best friend get back together with Thresh.

"You are so fucking crazy!" Johanna screeches. "Thresh is so fucking sexy. I would've been all over that."

"If you think so, then maybe you should go out with him." Finch offers with a raised eyebrow.

"No, that'd be a trashy move." Johanna waves it off. "I'd never do that to a nice friend. But if you were a bitch ... Thresh would get it."

"Okay, I think we're about to drive Foxface crazy with all the sex talk." Annie laughs. "Shall we continue with yoga?"

"We shall." Finch responds in a British accent, nodding approvingly at Annie.

Giving one final giggle, they all follow Foxface into the _Dragonfly_ pose—an intricate pose that requires you to have great balance and stamina. You shift your weight into your right leg and bring the left ankle to cross your right thigh just above the knee. Your shin will parallel to the floor. You then come into a forward bend, bringing your palms to the floor. Generally speaking, your legs are both pointed to one side and your upper body is facing the floor while you are few feet in the air. Finch is very flexible and has always had good stability, so this position has never been a problem. Delly is having some balance complications, so she goes to help straighten her legs.

This is what she loves to do: help people. When the help is tied in with yoga, she feels even better about herself.

The time passes by somewhat quickly, because Johanna is making everyone laugh and it's easy to get lost in time while hearing the blithe comments. As she said earlier, Madge leaves the studio early. The class comes to an end a mere ten minutes later, and everyone thanks Finch before scampering off to their other Friday plans.

Awkward silence swims around the cavern when only Clove and Foxface are left. Finch goes to unplug her iPhone from the speakers and just knows that Clove will bring up Thresh again; whether it be right now or during their car ride.

"Gonna stay inside and read all weekend again?" Clove asks.

"Yes." she lies. Well, at least, that's what she will be doing until tomorrow night. "What are you and Marvel doing?"

"I don't know yet." Clove shrugs.

Smiling, Finch motions to the glass doors. "Ready to go?" she asks, grabbing the key to lock the studio.

Clove nods, walking toward the doors. The two exit the quiet cavity and head to the shining Sedan in the crowded parking lot. A coffee shop, Kmart, ballet studio, and sandwich shop all surround the yoga studio, so it's not foreign to find the parking lot stuffed with cars.

Foxface is driving away as soon as they are both buckled into their seats. The ride is quiet for the first minute or two, not even the radio on to drown out the peace, but Clove eventually speaks up.

"So when do you think you'll talk to him again?" Only an idiot wouldn't know who she is talking about.

Uncomfortable, Finch tautens her grip on the steering wheel and shakes her head. "I don't know," she murmurs. "Why should I?"

"Oh, I don't know—because you're still in love with him!" Clove snaps. Realizing that the reply was short-tempered, she hesitates a few moments before continuing the reasoning. "I mean, you know that you still care about him. You know that he still cares about you. You two should try to work things out. There wasn't even too big a reason as to why you broke up."

"Yes, there was!" Finch exclaims, voice also heightening. "It just wasn't the same after ... after I told him."

"It's never going to be the same with anyone." Clove decrees, voice not unkind or gentle. "But it'll be hard to find another guy who'll still stick around after you tell him. In fact, it'll be damn-near impossible!"

This cruel (yet honest) revelation gets the young woman thinking. After she informed Thresh about the ghastly sexual abuse, his actions and movements were altered. They touched less. Thresh seemed to hesitate before saying and replying to everything. Tension raised around them, almost as if he expected Finch to drop another impactful bomb on their relationship. Rue even seemed to notice the strain on their once-unbreakable association.

They were hooked on each other, and Finch is still going through withdrawals. Withdrawals from not being around him and his bright smile — the beam complimented by irresistible dimples and cheekbones carved by the gods themselves. It's torture to know that you're missing out on someone amusing, handsome, and genuinely addicting.

It will be a difficult task to find another person like_ him_.

In the blur of remembering Thresh and his rare qualities, she somehow starts to think about Cato. She recalls his million-dollar smile and sculpture-like facial structure. She remembers just how adorable he looked sleeping on the couch, his body curled to keep from falling and his hair slightly bedraggled. While his physical features are intimidating, he is one of the easiest people to talk to. Foxface also remembers all those eye-catching girls throwing themselves at him on Instagram. Cato can get anyone he desires without making an effort. What chance does some angst-ridden, hideous redhead have against a bubbly, curvaceous blonde?

_Impossible _is the best word choice to use.

* * *

Pacing back and forth, Finch mutters inconceivable words and wonders if she can cancel at the last minute. In the long run, she knows that she can't and won't. The anxiety to know what happened on Wednesday is too much to deal with.

Saturday has appeared far too quickly and eight o'clock is a mere five minutes away. Finch treads back and forth in the living room, a million thoughts running through mind. _Should I go put on any makeup? Does my outfit look okay? Does it make me look fatter? _The redhead is wearing a studded collar shirt—the shirt itself white and the collar black—with black shorts. All are from _Forever 21_, of course. Finch would buy everything from that store if she went out somewhere occasionally.

Finch checks her iPhone to see if Cato has texted back since five minutes ago, but her inbox is empty. He could be a minute or two away.

Quickly, she sprints to the bathroom and checks herself in the mirror. No matter how much it hurts, she has to see how she looks before Cato arrives at the front door. The reflection is, as always, ugly and stomach-churning. Why did she agree to going out to dinner? Finch can't even imagine all the thoughts Cato must be thinking whenever he sees her repulsiveness. At least, he is nice enough to leave them in his mind.

Sighing, Foxface flicks the bathroom light off and sulks back to the living room.

It's not even five minutes later when she can see headlights illuminating the street before her house. Finch peeks past the blinds covering a kitchen window and sees Cato exit his truck. As he heads to the front door, he nervously combs a hand through his spiky hair. Nervous? How in the world can a person like _him _be nervy about seeing a person like _her_? Finch scoffs before hesitantly moving toward the front door.

Just as she anticipated, a fist thumps lightly against the front door.

Finch checks (for the sixth time) that her handbag has money and mints in it. After she throws up the food she eats, she will need the peppermints to hide the foul taste and smell in her mouth.

Breathing pattern shaking with fretfulness, she opens the door to find Cato raising his fist to knock again. He places his hand back to his side as he smiles crookedly. The scratches on his face are still noticeable, as well as his black eye (which is healing more quickly), but Finch still finds him impossibly pleasant to look at. Cato could be purple everywhere and he would still be a God.

"Good evening." she greets, stepping outside with him. Foxface closes and locks the door before turning back to him.

"_Good evening."_ Cato repeats with a nod. "Your vocabulary is definitely bigger than mine. I was going to settle with_ hey_."

"Hey is cool." Finch laughs softly.

"Well, you ready to go? I'm starving."

_Me, too._

"Yeah." she responds with a small smile.

The two then plod over to his black truck. Finch thinks that he is about to get into the passenger seat when he actually just opens the door for her. Wow, it's been a while since someone did that, she thinks as she thanks him and climbs in. Cato closes the door once she is settled into the seat and walks around to the other side. Finch can't help but notice how in pain he looks as he climbs in, the bruises on his body more than likely pulsating. Finch frowns.

"I could've waited until next weekend." she tells him.

Shaking his head, Cato plugs the car key into the ignition and the truck growls awake. "No, I'm fine," he promises. "It isn't anything I can't take."

Although she still frowns, she decides not to bother him further.

"So what'd you do today?" Cato asks casually.

The redhead ponders this query.

_Let's see ... I scolded myself for opening the fridge this morning, even though I didn't take anything from it. I read a book I've already read four other times. I looked at your pictures on Instagram over and over again. I ignored my growling stomach and seemed to have finally convinced it that it's too chubby to be rewarded with food. Most recently, I paced back and forth in the living room and almost caught a panic attack at thinking that I was going to dinner with you. Some day, huh?_

"Nothing." Finch translates. "What about you?"

"Same." Cato sighs shamefully.

"What was Clove doing?" she wonders.

"Annoying me to fucking death," Cato huffs.

Finch giggles and figures that she shouldn't allow him to talk about her best friend like that, but she isn't going to stop him. Not knowing what to say, she presses her lips together and watches the houses as they pass by. It's not long before the truck is on the highway to get to the diner they are going to. It's not a lengthy drive from where they are—only about five minutes—but Finch doesn't think she'll be able to bear the silence for that long. The quietness isn't at all cold, but it certainly is wasteful. Should she ask about Thresh now?

_No_, she thinks. They haven't been with one another for a solid five minutes. They have all night to discuss whatever went down on Wednesday night. Finch just stays mute and hopes that he starts up another conversation.

When Cato stops at a red light, he reaches out for the button to turn on the radio.

"What station do you listen to?" he asks.

"I don't really listen to the radio," she admits slowly. "I prefer the music on my iPhone." _Gosh, that sounded pretentious._

This statement only makes Cato lift an eyebrow with genuine curiosity. "Really? Same here. I can't stand half the shit they play on the radio nowadays. What artists do you like?"

"Well, Sarah Fimm is my ultimate poetic genius." The blankness on his face informs Foxface that he has no clue who Sarah is. It's honestly not too big a surprise; she is such an unknown (yet incredible) singer and songwriter. "I also like Austra, Sóley, Ellie Goulding ..." Cato's face brightens at the Ellie Goulding bit.

"These three metal singers I like did a cover of _Lights_." he explains.

"Oh, cool." she says. "Is the cover on your phone?"

Nodding, Cato pulls his iPhone from his pocket and types in the lock code. The male then hands the device to Finch. "It should be already open in YouTube." he advises.

Clicking the video-sharing App, she can't help but blush and feel slightly uncomfortable at holding his phone. Finch is glad that it's dark inside the truck. _Calm down_, she thinks. _It's not like he's a celebrity or something._

Just as he said, the cover is already open in the App and swiftly buffering. The radio in the truck is muted, so they won't have a problem hearing the music streaming from the iPhone. Finch waits impatiently for the music to begin, because she knows that this will be a taste of his inner-character. The best way to figure out how a person feels on the inside is to listen to their music. _Lights_ is a song that'd probably describe more happy sentiments than sad ones, Finch supposes. The version she is about to listen to can convey something entirely different, though.

The cover finally starts, and Cato smiles while keeping his blue eyes on the road ahead.

Guitar and drum vocals burst through the speakers like firecrackers; the instrumental brash and lively. A man proceeds to howl the lyrics in a very punk-rock and intriguing way. The closer the lyrics get to the refrain, the more despondent and unhappy his voice becomes.

The cover continues on for three minutes. Cato occasionally echoes along with the three different men, and Finch wishes that he would sing the whole song. Is there anything that isn't wonderful about him?

"It was amazing," Foxface admits and hands him back his phone.

"Yeah." Cato agrees with a grin.

He is pulling into the diner parking lot moments later. The _D_ in the _DINER_ sign is burned out, so the red letters actually read _INER_. "Ready to go to the _iner_?" Cato asks.

Laughing at the cheesy joke, the redhead opens the truck door and hops down onto the dark concrete. Cato also steps down from his colossal vehicle and locks the doors before shoving his keys into his pocket. Cato and Foxface walk together to the glass doors and, once again showing how gentlemanly he is, he opens the door for her.

Finch is about to say thank you, but the stomach-churning scent of grease washes over her. As she numbly walks in, she finds that the odor is everywhere inside the checker-patterned eatery. Burgers, French fries, milkshakes, all things fattening: they all heap the diner with their taunting smells. Finch suddenly wants to run, to whip around and sprint away while she still has the chance. The door is only few feet away and—

"Ma'am?" A dark-skinned woman brings Foxface back to reality. The lady has two menus in hand and is tapping her dark red nails against them with a noted impatience.

"A booth sounds nice." Cato finally answers the question that Finch couldn't.

Without a response, the woman whips around and escorts them to a red-cushioned booth. Cato and Finch sit on opposite sides and thank the attendant as she places the menus before them.

"Another waitress will be right with you." she promises before turning away.

"Is something wrong?" Cato asks hesitantly.

"Oh, no. I'm just ... Nothing's wrong." Finch jumbles, not daring to meet his eyes.

The young woman only stares at the laminated menu on the tabletop, eyes scrolling wildly over every single food choice the diner provides. Gosh, she hopes that she doesn't embarrass herself by stuffing her face with everything. It's been a while since she ate properly and an even longer time since she tasted something as mouthwatering as a cheeseburger ...

_Eat whatever you want_, she mentally tells herself. _Just throw it up later._

After taking a look around the place, she spots a sign pointing to a bathroom down a short hallway. That will later be her sanctuary.

A dark-haired woman with a small notepad and pen bounces up to the table with a bright smile, oblivious to the fact that Cato has marks across half his face. The waitress wears a white blouse that is tucked neatly into a checker-patterned skirt. The skirt is barely existent and Finch wonders how many tips this woman makes in a day. She tries not to feel envious when Cato stares a second too long at the top of her unbuttoned blouse.

The waitress takes their drink orders and then struts off to go make them, hips swaying wildly.

"Um," Cato seems to be waking from a daze and Finch really tries not to feel jealous. "How much do you already know about the fight?"

Finch recalls what Thresh said—that Cato had played the race card—and wonders if she should tell the truth or not. For all she knows, Thresh could have been lying. For all she knows, Cato can also lie about the story. Finch finally decides that it will be best to tell what she already knows. Maybe Cato will own up to his actions or maybe—hopefully—he will deny that he ever brought race into their altercation.

Carefully, she gives a short explanation of what Thresh said.

The waitress brings back their ordered drinks moments after the short story settles in, her sugar-sweet smile inappropriate in their tense presence. "Are you guys ready to order?" she asks.

"Give us a minute." Cato waves the lady off.

Disappointment evident, she trails away.

"Wait—maybe I heard you wrong ..." Cato squints his eyes at nothing in particular and looks as if he is trying to remember something. _Good_, Finch thinks. _Thresh was lying_. "He told you that I called him the ... the n-word?"

Foxface confirms this with a nod.

"Damn. I thought I was a liar."

"If anyone else asked him about it, he would've told the truth." she murmurs considerately. Thresh wasn't going to make himself look like the villain to Finch. He was going to play the woe-is-me sympathy card and also use that manipulative act as a chance to make Cato the anti-hero. "I didn't believe him when he told me, though." she admits to him, hoping that it will make him less vexed.

This seems to work, as his face softens and a relieved smile spreads across his lips.

"You barely know me, though." Cato points out what Clove and Thresh have been attempting to prove all along.

"I know you enough to know that you wouldn't say that." Finch retorts.

Seeming pleased at this, he glances down at his menu on the table and then takes a glimpse around the diner to find their waitress. "You ready to order?" Cato asks, trying to ease the awkwardness between them.

Taking one final glance at the menu, she looks back up at him and nods.

Excitement rumbles in her stomach at the thought that it will finally have what it has been yearning for lately. It isn't even disappointed that the food will have to be purged later; it's simply content that it will finally get the calories. Tonight, it will be rewarded. Tomorrow, it's back to fighting off the hunger.

"I think I'm going to have a cheeseburger." she mutters hesitantly.

"Same." Cato responds with a chuckle. "If only we could get the waitress back over here."

Eventually, he is able to flag down the server and she bounds over. Cato orders a double bacon cheeseburger, cheese fries topped with bacon shavings, and a chocolate milkshake. Finch wants to puke at just hearing the bountiful request; she doesn't think she'll be able to stand sitting across from it. For herself, she only asks for a cheeseburger. The waitress informs that it will come with French fries and she doesn't want to be suspicious enough to deny them.

Smiling (primarily at Cato), the waitress says that the food will be ready in few minutes and takes their menus away.

Aside from the radio playing in the diner, there is quietness between them. Foxface wants to ask Cato for the real story, but she doesn't want to pester him for it. He will talk about it when, or if, he wants to. At least, she knows that he isn't the racist Thresh painted him out to be.

"So how long have you been friends with Clove?" Cato begins another conversation, also seeming to dislike the wasteful silence.

"Three years." Finch answers automatically. "Are you and Marvel friends?"

"Yeah, we're cool. I need to hang out with him more. Hell, I need to get out more." Cato scoffs at himself. "Something about being around my family makes me lazy."

"I bet they're really glad that you're back, even though Clove might not act like it." she assures with a warm smile.

Cato shrugs a response and takes a sip from his Coke.

They proceed to converse about things that have lighter subject matter: television and movies. Finch learns that Cato usually watches senseless comedies and action films. He hesitantly admits to liking nostalgic cartoons such as _Scooby Doo_ and _Rugrats_, which earns him a stunned smile. Finch absolutely adores _Rugrats in Paris_; she even has a picture of her DVD on Instagram.

The greasy scent in the diner increases as the cheeseburgers are being cooked in the kitchen . Finch suddenly wishes that she was wearing long sleeves to stuff her upset nose into. To a normal person, the smell would be mouthwatering and pleasant. To Finch, the smell is agonizing and gut-wrenching.

It's not long before their waitress delivers their food to the booth. Finch immediately regrets coming here when she places the freshly grilled burger and grease-covered French fries on the tabletop. _What if I can't stop when I restart eating? What if I don't have the want to throw it up afterward? What if it comes up on its own?_ These are the queries that constantly plague girls and women who purge and starve themselves. Does Finch really want to take a risk with these hazards?

_You have the mints. You will throw this up later. Just eat._

Cato is already taking a mouthful from his double bacon cheeseburger. He hums approvingly at its taste.

Tempted, Finch picks up her cheeseburger and takes a wary bite from it.

Wow.

It has been a while since she ate a burger, hasn't it? The tantalizing, juicy slab of perfectly grilled meat is placed between oh-so crunchy lettuce. The melted slices of cheese ooze deliciousness over the sides of the two bronze-colored sesame buns. The delectable arrangement is paired with ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, and cut pickles, making it the meal from Heaven (for a person who hasn't eaten lately, at least). Yes, this is definitely Heaven.

Foxface takes a huge gulp from her lemonade to help wash the calories down. They will definitely be coming back up later, because there is no way she is allowing the ingredients sit in her stomach

"I forgot how much I loved this place." Cato comments after he swallows a cheese fry.

_I forgot how much I loved food._

"Yeah," she mutters.

Neither talk much while they eat; they are both too enveloped in their food, almost how Clove and Marvel were too enclosed in each other at the skating rink. Cato offers Foxface some cheese fries, but she kindly rejects them. In all honesty, she isn't going to eat her own French fries. Cato can take them home if he wants to.

Though she wants to eat quickly, she has to be cautious of her system and how it will take in the sustenance. It isn't at that stage yet—the stage where it upchucks food on its own. But Finch can feel it—it's going to come soon if she doesn't stop purging. Dammit, she needs pills! One time, she tried to order some diet pills from a television infomercial. Thresh was fast to tell the redhead that the pills were no good, that they were amphetamine pills that she would get addicted to. But wasn't he always the one with smoke drifting past his nostrils? The comparison isn't fair, she knows, but he was a hypocrite for saying that.

Finch watches Cato eat for a moment, marveling at how clueless he is. He has no idea who he is sitting across from and what she does to try to be thin. He cannot fathom how much he affects the way she feels about herself. Unknowingly, he makes Finch feel ten times uglier than she thought she was. Why does he have to be that handsome, even with those scratches on his face and that purple surrounding his eye? If he weren't so kind and funny, she would hate him with a burning passion.

Suddenly upset, she slides her half-eaten cheeseburger and untouched fries across the table.

"I'm full." she explains when Cato lifts an eyebrow. _You need to go throw up. Now. _"I didn't touch my fries, so you can take them home if you'd like. I've got to go use the restroom."

"Thank you, and go ahead." See, Cato knows what you're about to do and he even approves it. Everyone knows that you're too fat to not purge.

The young woman stands up from the booth, clutch bag in hand, and walks to the bathroom. It smells like grease mingled with Febreze and created this dirty-disguised-as-clean scent. The restroom is thankfully empty and Finch hurries to the biggest stall. Carefully, she lowers herself into the tiled floor and flicks her hair back.

This is absolutely disgusting and she knows it. Finch could potentially be throwing up into a toilet that a hooker peed in or two teenagers had sex on. Those aren't even the worst possibilities she can think up. _Stop thinking,_ she thinks and brings her index finger into her mouth. Foxface has done worse things than this, thanks to her inhuman father.

The process goes swiftly: she finds that overused gag reflex, the cheeseburger makes a reappearance, and then it's flushed away along with whatever dignity she has left.

Sighing, she rises from the floor and exits the stall on wobbly legs. Finch stops at the bathroom sink to wash her hands, rinse her mouth with the tap (which, not so surprisingly, tastes like sewer water), and eat a peppermint.

When it's halfway dissolved, she exits the restroom and rejoins Cato at their table, praying that her shady absence wasn't too noticeable.

Cato smiles lightly as she settles back into the cushioned booth.

"You getting dessert?" he asks.

"Oh, no," she declines, perhaps a bit too quickly. "I'm too full."

"If I got a pie, would you help me finish it?" Cato continues, his eyes on a small dessert menu on the table. The waitress must have brought it over when she was throwing up. Finch wonders what else went on during that two-minute vicinity. "I'm pretty full, too, and I don't wanna waste it."

Before she can reply, their dark-haired waitress comes back to the table with a large to-go box.

"Thinking about getting any dessert?" she winks at Cato.

He looks to Finch for the answer; she nods no. The cheeseburger was a generous sacrifice; a pie slice will be downright greedy.

"No, I think I'm ready for the bill." Cato says, handing the menu back to the waitress.

"Sure thing." she takes the menu and leaves them.

A minute passes by and she's back with the bill in a leather pouch. Finch starts to take out some money for the price—an estimated thirty dollars—but Cato insists that he will pay for everything.

"You're too nice." she frowns when the waitress leaves them for the last time. _Too nice to have those scratches and bruises all over you. _Christ, she really needs to know what happened on Wednesday night.

"It's the proper thing to do," he shrugs, though his cheeks are slightly reddening.

After he packs the remaining fries into the oversized to-go box, the two stand from the table. Cato leaves their waitress a deserving tip—a ten dollar bill—and Finch wonders if half the money is for the scanty outfit she wears.

The glowing _INER _sign helps them find the dark truck in the parking lot. They are in the vehicle moments later and Cato hesitates just as he is about to start the engine.

"I never told you what really happened, did I?"

"No, but it's all right," she promises. "Those cheeseburgers are enough to make you forget about anything." _Enough to make you forget that you shouldn't be eating them—eating at all, really. _

This gets him to chuckle lightly and nod in agreement. He sets his keys down on the space between them and seems as if he's searching for a right way to begin the story. Finch watches him intently, amber eyes wide open with curiosity and worry.

"Well, I was leaving the rink and Thresh and his friend were hanging out behind the building."

"Smoking?" Finch guesses.

"Smoking," Cato confirms.

When they were dating, he would always have weed wedged between his lips. Thresh would press that the tobacco product calmed him and that it wasn't doing anything to hurt his system. Finch still didn't approve it, but she wasn't going to demand him to stop.

They had an agreement. Thresh couldn't tell Foxface to stop purging and she couldn't tell him to stop smoking.

"I told him that I thought he was working and he told me that he was on break. I started to walk away," Cato pauses and seems to be mentally considering on telling the next part. After a few unbearably long moments, he continues, "But I stopped when he told me to be careful with you."

_I will murder him. I will kill him in his sleep if he told you—_

"He told me that you get your heart broken easily and I asked him whose fault that was."

A relieved sigh moves past her trembling lips.

"He told me that I didn't know anything about you or some shit. We exchanged a few insults before fighting—him and his friend against me. The thing that really got him was I said something about his mom." Cato finishes with a lazy shrug.

Not knowing what to say, Finch bites down onto her bottom lip and blinks slowly at him.

What can she say? That Thresh had every right to stand up for the woman who gave him life? That Cato was right for saying whatever he said after Thresh low-lyingly taunted him? Finch would have to know exactly what insults were thrown around to decide who is at fault, but she has had enough for the night. This happened days ago and is fairly irrelevant now.

"I'm sorry that that happened," she murmurs uncertainly. To seem more sincere, she places a hand on Cato's shoulder and awkwardly rubs it. "Thresh shouldn't have done that, especially with his friend helping him."

Grinning, Cato shakes his head with disbelief.

"And you say that _I'm _too nice," he replies.

"You are!" she exclaims, glad that the tense bubble that was around them has burst. Finch withdraws her hand from his shoulder and remembers how—not even five minutes ago—he paid for food that she puked up. "I shouldn't have let you pay the whole bill."

The male drills the key into the ignition and sighs, the grin still brightening his scrape-covered face.

"So, Sarah Fimm," he begins after exiting the parking lot. Foxface immediately perks up at the conversation, eager and excited to see what he might say or ask about the lyrical Goddess. "Can you play me something she sang? You know, since you listened to Matt and Eric?"

"Of course!" she takes her iPhone from her pocket. It's been a while since someone requested Sarah Fimm to be played. This is a rare occasion that she will take advantage of. "_Afraid _or _Orchids_?" she gives him a choice.

"Uh, _Afraid_, I guess."

Without another word, she clicks on the soul-touching song and smiles blankly as it begins.

_I'd like to hold you close, make you feel safe, not so afraid of yourself ..._

Cato keeps his eyes on the road and listens mutely as Sarah fills his truck with haunting vocals and spiritual grooves. He must not hate it, because he's not complaining like Clove does. Finch smiles.

The song ends about a minute before they get to her house, but they both stay silent. It's almost as if the song holds an ethereal impact on them, one that binds their words in their throats and makes them truly appreciate the night for the first time.

A half-moon dangles in the sky, tiny stars starting to surround it. They all look lucent and beautiful against the ink-black welkin.

"Wow," Cato murmurs, cerulean eyes focused on the stars.

"It is a gorgeous night, isn't it?" Finch agrees.

"I was talking about the song." he corrects and grins at nothing in particular. "It was amazing."

"Oh," she blushes.

The young man turns to the redhead and smiles. This facial gesture is different than the others, though. It isn't crooked, it isn't seductive (okay, maybe it's still seductive), and it isn't arrogant. It's genuine, amicable. It, for an oh-so lovely moment, makes Foxface forget that she's the most worthless thing breathing on Earth. It makes her forget that she is damaged beyond repair, plagued by childhood abuse and treading between two eating disorders.

What a wonderful feeling.

"Thank you, Cato."

"It's no problem." he vows, unaware. _You have no idea the effect you can have. _

Too dazed to say anything more, she opens the truck door and steps onto the street. Smiling to herself, she walks over to her front door and turns to the truck in the street one last time before heading inside.

Finch can hear the engine outside for a few moments, then the loud vehicle grows fainter and fainter until it's gone. The young woman sinks against the door, dropping her iPhone and handbag unceremoniously.

Sarah Fimm still plays in mind, the voice comforting and fitting.

_I've been dead and I wanna come out ..._

* * *

**Everyone should go check out_ Afraid_, which is an amazing song that will change your life. Reviewers get bacon-topped cheese fries, by the way.**

**I (unfortunately) had to write this Chapter on my iPod, which means that you probably noticed many mistakes. Let me know if you spot anything wrong, lovelies. Thank you.**


	8. Eight

**:Michael Jackson voice: 'Cause this is **_**filler**_**! Filler night! 2k+ words is just enough for a creative mind! Whoo-ooh! :starts dancing:**

**So this is going to kill my OCD ass, but I had to do both Cato and Foxface POV for this Chapter. This one is a bit uneventful, but next Chapter will definitely make up for it. :winky face:**

* * *

_Bythos_

_"I don't wanna give you the wrong impression,_

_I need love and affection,_

_And I hope I'm not sounding too desperate,_

_I need love and affection."_

—_Loveeee Song_, Rihanna and Future

* * *

**Cato**

Everything is too surreal for him to sensibly comprehend.

About a week and a half ago, he was in bed with Lyme, tracing patterns onto her inner thigh and whispering dirty things into her ear until she begged him to do what he was promising. The memory is still fresh in his brain: the black hair spilled across equally dark sheets, the desperate pleading being murmured hotly next to his ear, the smell of sex surrounding the bedroom. He usually wouldn't bother to remember his encounters with his one-night stands. Lyme is the last chick he fucked, though. He misses the contact, the ability to fuck without feeling anything but physical gratification.

A few days under a week ago, he stormed into a yoga studio to get Clove. A few days under a week ago, he met perhaps the most intriguing girl he has ever stumbled upon. The redheaded, soft-spoken, modest yoga teacher who has showed up in his fantasies at least twice.

Two minutes ago, she was in his car. In his fucking territory, all doe-eyed and smiley, so sweet and ironically seductive, and he couldn't even get to first base.

By this time, he would've already fucked her and moved on to another chick in the next city. That is, if she was normal and didn't have that pulling effect on him.

Cato is definitely off his game. He doesn't even know why: why he came back in the first place, why he isn't in bed with Glimmer. Well, he does know why and has legitimate answers for both queries.

It just feels foreign to him: liking a chick enough to basically chase after her like a lost puppy. He certainly wouldn't mind being her dog.

It doesn't take him long to get back to the house. It's few minutes past nine o'clock when he's walking up to the front door and silently praying that Clove is out somewhere with Marvel.

The house seems somewhat vacant when he enters. The only lights on are the ones in the kitchen and the light to the master bedroom where Brutus and Cashmere sleep. Cato would assume that they were having sex with no one else in the house, but they usually kept the lights off and the door closed (thank God for that).

The male steps into the kitchen to go to put his French fries away in the refrigerator. To his surprise, his mother is sitting at the kitchen table, blue eyes drained and fingers coiled around a wine glass. This is a sight he saw many times as a young boy; he usually saw it after that strange man (definitely not his father) left the house. Back then, he didn't know that it meant something bad happened. He was only, what, four? But as he grew into his teenage years, as he saw what his friends did to manipulate their girlfriends, as he saw what _he_ did to manipulate his girlfriends, he knew that the look was not good. It was the same look girls gave him before he left them.

Shit, something bad happened. He suddenly wishes that he had walked in to find Clove instead.

"Mom?" he murmurs, first needing to see how intoxicated she is.

"Hey, baby," she smiles weakly.

Face clouding with worry, Cato takes a seat at the kitchen table with his mother. He sets the to-go box down and stretches an arm around Cashmere.

"You all right?" he asks.

Cashmere takes another sip from the wine glass she holds and nods. Cato looks around for the wine bottle, wanting to see exactly how much is missing from it. He sighs when he sees it sticking out from the trashcan in the kitchen corner. Brutus, his mind brings on the name. Was his car in the driveway when he got here? Cato curses himself for not remembering, but the house is too quiet and still for anyone but them to be here. They must have had a fight. It couldn't have been anything too serious; the house seems intact and the cops aren't here.

"I'm fine, I promise," Cashmere continues. "Just let me be alone for a while. Please?" The slur in her tone tells him that he probably shouldn't leave his mother by herself, but he sure as Hell doesn't want to get involved in whatever fuss she and Brutus are in. If it bothers him tomorrow, he'll ask Clove about it and see if she knows.

Cato gets up from the kitchen chair and moves his to-go box toward his mother. "There are some fries in there," he says. "You can have them if you want."

Thankful, she manages another feeble smile and pulls the Styrofoam container closer. Cato gives his mother one last glance before walking away to his room.

* * *

"Do you have a white suit?"

Shifting in bed, Cato groans and pulls the covers closer to his half-naked body. The morning light pouring in through the blinds upsets his retinas even though his eyes are tightly closed.

"Does it look like I have a suit at all? It's too damn early in the morning." he growls back.

Grumbling something to herself, Clove walks farther into his room and opens the blinds even more. The light blazes past his shut eyelids and he buries his face into his pillow. Doesn't Clove have anything better to do? Can't she go fuck Marvel or something? "It's nearing noon, you ass," she retorts. "You need a white suit and Marvel might have one you can fit."

"White suit?" he muffles into his pillow.

"For his birthday, he's having a white party." she explains. "Where everyone wears white, you know?"

So that's what people are coming up with now? White parties? It sounds like a secret KKK meeting, and he doesn't need anything to make him seem more racist than he so-called is.

"Who told you that I wanted to go?" Cato asks.

"I figured that you'd want to. Girls in tight dresses, cocktails, servers walking around with cheesecake balls on silver platters ... You could even meet up with Glimmer again; she's going."

_Glimmer. _Cato can't lie; he has thought about her a few times since being here. He almost can't ignore the fact that a blonde bombshell likes every single one of his infinite pictures on Instagram, that she is practically throwing herself at him. Glimmer is easier to forget about, though, when Foxface pops into his mind (which is more than he'd like to own up to).

A light bulb flickers on in his brain. Marvel has to be acquainted with the vixen. There is a large possibility that she will be attending the party. Hopefully, there is an even larger possibility that she will be wearing a tight, curve-clinging dress.

"Well?" Clove interrupts the image before it can fully register in his mind.

"Yeah, I'll go. Why do I need to get up now, though?"

"Because you do." Clove replies simply before turning into the hallway.

Though his body is still in sleep-mode, Cato forces himself up from the bed and yawns gapingly. He stalks to the bathroom mirror before doing anything else, wanting to see how well his eye has healed over the night. The purple cloud is no longer too noticeable; his eye should be healed within the next two days. He will undoubtedly be back to his Adonis façade by the time Marvel throws the party.

It killed him to go out to dinner with Foxface looking all bruised and imperfect, especially when she was all glowing and doe-eyed and fucking adorable, but he couldn't wait any longer. It's almost as if he can't go more than few days without seeing the yoga instructor.

Cato cleans himself up and throws on some clothes.

"So I guess that I'm driving?" Cato asks Clove as he walks into the living room.

"Of course," she quips, shooting up from the sofa. "Ready?"

He nods and opens the front door, randomly remembering the state his mother was in last night. He'll have a chance to ask Clove if she knows anything.

The siblings walk down the driveway and climb into his truck. The drive starts out quiet and peaceful, which is abnormal considering that they constantly argue. Cato waits a while before asking about Brutus and Cashmere.

"Last night," he begins, "I got home and Cashmere was ... well, drunk. Did she and Brutus get into a fight or something?"

Clove sighs tiredly and runs a hand through her dark hair.

"Yeah, they were arguing about what to do with my car—the stupidest shit ever. It was like watching me and you argue." she laughs wryly.

"Yeah, but you don't go drinking absentmindedly after we argue, do you?" Cato inquires.

"What are you trying to say?" Clove gives him a threatening glare.

Shrugging, he looks back at the road ahead and tightens his grip on the steering wheel. Cato knows that his stepsister will do any and everything to protect Brutus, whether he is in the wrong or right. Such a daddy's girl. It's probably why she hasn't moved in with Marvel yet. Cashmere could be in the wrong, he knows, but driving a woman to drink a whole wine bottle is definitely saying something.

_The house was intact and the police weren't there_, he mentally reminds himself. _Don't look for trouble._

"Do they fight a lot?" Cato makes a slight change in the subject.

Gazing up at the sun, Clove shrugs.

"Stick around and you'll find out."

* * *

"So, your party," Cato begins as he puts on the suit jacket, "who all is going?"

Marvel shoves some potato chips into his mouth, chews them leisurely, then swallows the Lays to answer the question.

"Shit, I don't know. Any names in particular you looking for?"

Cato looks around to make sure that Clove is still off getting them drinks. "Foxface," he says. If she isn't going, he has decided that he still is. He hasn't had any physical gratification lately; he figures that he should reward himself with something. A drunken one-night stand is what he could use right now, just so he doesn't feel this ... lacking.

"Yeah, she'll be there." Marvel smirks knowingly. "Clove wants you away from her."

"Clove needs a life."

"She is a bit obsessed about it."

Huffing, Cato studies himself in the floor-length mirror in the room. The young man forgot how sexy he looked in formal attire. He can almost smell the vodka and cherry-flavored lip gloss on the chicks who are going to be chasing after him. Deep down, he knows that he would rather have Foxface, and not just to sleep with (though that would be nice). But a one-night stand will have to do until he cracks the vixen.

Last night, he realized something awfully significant about relationships: it's best to stay faithful. Committed. Cato has never been great with commitment—in fact, it's an antonym to his name. The realization settled in when that waitress offered him a desert menu along with her number. He considered taking it, but then _she _starting overshadowing his thoughts again. Cato doesn't feel guilt often, but he knows he would've been the most ashamed douchebag on Earth if he did take the number.

_Fuck_, he thinks. _The things that girl does to me—unknowingly, too._

"What is it about her that you want?" Marvel wonders aloud, his eyebrow heaved.

The endless thoughts come before he can stop them.

_The way she looks embarrassed when she smiles. The way she just stares off into space as if she's thinking about a million amazing things. The way her eyes glow in light—how they are just amber in the dark, but look exactly like honey when light reflects in them. The way she giggles and laughs every time I say something that I don't think is even remotely funny. The way those shorts frame around her incredible ass. The way she fucking bites her lip when thinking about something that's apparently intricate. Where to fucking start, Marvel?_

"Well," Cato decides to answer by asking a question, "what was it that made you want Clove?"

Now smiling (yep, he and Clove are definitely fucking), Marvel thinks for a few moments before shrugging.

"You wouldn't understand."

"My point exactly."

* * *

**Foxface**

"Come on, Finch, just try it on!"

Madge thrusts a crinkled and twinkling dress at the redhead, not taking no for an answer. Foxface recoils from the itchy fabric and frowns dramatically. There is no way that she is putting _that_ thing on; it screams for attention.

Katniss pokes her head out of a dressing room and studies the dress Madge is throwing at Foxface. "No," she says. "It's way too pop trash."

"Thank you!" Finch chirps.

"Well, it's unique compared to the plain thing she wants to wear." Madge defends, placing the dress back on the rack with an exasperated sigh.

Rolling her stormy eyes, Katniss disappears back into the dressing room to try on the silk dress she chose.

On Monday, they were all informed about the white party Marvel is throwing this coming Saturday. Everyone squealed with delight; this party would be _the_ party. The Quaid family got off easy when they got into a car crash with a millionaire driving under the influence. Even though there were consequences for both crash participants—Marvel suffered from slight brain damage and is still struggling with a few things to this day—the Quaids didn't undergo any financial dilemmas.

In fact, they purchased a mansion only a week after the run-in. Finch wouldn't be surprised if they've got a few maids wondering the corridors.

A villa mixed with horny college kids, cocktails, blaring music, and parents gone for the weekend apparently calls for the most talked about event this summer. Finch shivers at the thought.

There are more reasons than drunk teenagers that contribute to why she shouldn't go, though. Thresh almost has a guaranteed spot on the invitation list. He knows that she will be going for Clove. Finch doesn't know if she will be able to face him after their almost-sex on the couch. The tension will be blatant if they are ever in the same room at the party.

"Where in the Hell is Clove?" Katniss asks from inside the dressing stall.

"She just texted me," Foxface declares. "She said she isn't going to make it."

"She's probably busy planning with Marvel." Madge guesses.

"Or giving him his pre-birthday sex." Katniss laughs.

The three laugh together, and Finch moves over to the clothing rack again. The dress she first chose was quite beautiful; it was smooth and floor-length. Madge squealed that it was too boring before she could even try it on. Boring is exactly what she is aiming for, though; the last thing she wants is for attention to be drawn toward her. The young woman sorts through the rack of white dresses that a clerk was kind enough to provide them with. _Too glittery, too puffy, too showy ..._

"What about this one?" Madge asks, holding up another strapless number. It looks as if it would fit tightly across the breast area, and it flows out into something short and veil-like.

"Too short," she decrees.

The blonde lets out a whimper and places the dress back on the rack. "Honestly, Finch, your lack of taste is self-destructive." she moans, dubious of how symbolic the sentence is.

_Oh, Madge_, Foxface thinks, _you have no idea._

* * *

**Sorry for the lame Chapter. As I promised, the next will definitely make up for it. **


	9. Nine

**Smuttiest Chapter yet. Wrote it and re-wrote it, and I'm still not entirely satisfied with it, but you all are the jury. Hope it's not as terrible as I think it is! By the way, I'm **_**horrible **_**at describing dresses, so the dress Foxface wears in the Chapter is the same dress Jacqueline Emerson (Queen!) wore at the Delta Air Lines Music Celebration.**

**Another note, sorry! But I owe this Chapter to my **_**incredible **_**friend, **_**50 Shades Uncolored**_**. You are such an encouraging person and I love you, boo!**

* * *

_Bythos_

"_Say, can I tempt you?_

_Can you be tempted to pick up another string on your guitar?_

_Hey, can I tempt you?_

_Or can you be tempted to play me like Satan's Seventh Bride_?_"_

—_Satan's Seventh Bride_, Helicopter Girl

* * *

**Foxface**

It's short, revealing, uncomfortable, skin-irritating, and perhaps the most annoying thing she has ever come in contact with.

It's also the most beautiful dress she has ever worn.

_Madge, you are a Goddess_, Finch thinks as she adjusts the thin straps. After going through countless dresses on Wednesday, the blonde found this particular dress buried between another white ball gown and a dress with blue sequins. That is probably why they didn't see it at first; they were trying to avoid that popstar-esque costume.

This dress has a grayish under-layer that is almost wholly covered by white lacing. Atop the lace patterns are five miscellaneously-cut shapes that look aesthetic in an eclectic fashion. The dress won't be the most attention-attracting at the party, but it certainly will get second glances.

Finch quickly runs a curling iron through her red hair again, knowing that Clove and the girls will be arriving in the limo soon. Marvel was sweet enough to rent his girlfriend a limousine to arrive to his mansion in, and she insisted on sharing it with all the recurring yoga students. After defining her curls, Foxface unplugs the styling iron from its outlet and studies herself in the mirror.

_I like you better plain_, she decides.

The light foundation on her face, the dark shade on her eyes, the gloss on her lips: Finch is foreign to it all. The only reason she put makeup on at all is to keep the girls from manhandling her into a bathroom and shoving their mascara brushes and blush pads in her face. Finch even put on some earrings: diamond studs.

Her iPhone screen lights up on the kitchen counter. _We're heeerrreeee_, reads the text from Clove. They must have wine in the limo with them.

After shoving her phone into her clutch bag, Foxface heads toward the front door on clanking heels. The three-inch devils were buried beneath various storage items in her closet. By some miracle, they matched the lovely dress Madge found. She checks that she has her house key and some mints (she hasn't eaten since Wednesday), then leaves the house.

The sun has already sunken to sleep, the sky painted with a bluish color. It's a few minutes past nine o'clock.

A white limousine (Marvel certainly is serious about this whole white party concept) is parked on the street. Finch can hear a Ke$ha song playing from her porch. She looks back at her house, to the limo, back at the house, and finally makes her way toward the limo. The popstar is something that she will learn to put up with.

"Woah, that dress is so hot on you." Johanna slaps Foxface on the butt as she climbs into the limo.

"Hardly," she responds as she settles onto a leather seat.

Johanna is wearing quite the stunning outfit, too. The top is tight and spaghetti-strapped; the bottom long and smooth until eventually blossoming out to reveal her black high-heels.

All the young woman in the limousine look ravishing. Annie seems to have spent hours working on her regularly-perfect hair. The brown locks are tucked into a neat bun, wavy tendrils on either side of her face. Foxface can almost picture Finnick lovingly twirling his finger around one before leaning in to give his beam of light a kiss. Clove wears a short dress that has a nice-sized slit between the breast area—a slit that Marvel will proudly claim as his birthday present—and finishes off the look with a high ponytail. Delly is wearing a puffy thing that looks something like a wedding dress. Enobaria goes for a more unexpected look, sporting a white blazer and black pants. Madge wears a Cinderella-mocking dress, her blonde hair in wild curls and fingernails painted silver. Looking impossibly thin and model-like, Katniss is covered in a silk gown that gives off a ghostly appearance.

Everyone exchanges their girlish compliments and mutual excitement for the party tonight.

Finch can only think about two things—_people_—as Johanna asks around for eyeliner.

Cato is definitely going to be there; Clove mentioned it during a yoga class this past week. Finch can't help but feel excited (and squeamish) to see him again. They casually texted one another once or twice since their dinner last Saturday, but haven't had any other face-to-face meetings. Marvel has been dropping off and picking up Clove from yoga classes, so she didn't have the chance to see him. It's been exactly a week since she saw him; a week much too long.

Thresh will also be at the mansion tonight.

Not only does she have to worry about herself not running into him, but she also fears that he and Cato might cross paths. The thought is unnerving.

_No, stop thinking negatively_, she thinks. _Tonight, you're going to have fun. But not too much fun._

"Everyone scoot together for a picture!" Madge squeals, pulling out her bejeweled iPhone.

The group complies, shifting in their seats to fit everyone into the camera span. Madge squeezes herself into the picture, turns the camera button around, and waits until everyone stops touching up their hair to snap the picture. "Instagram," she announces after evaluating how decent a picture it was.

"Speaking of ..." Johanna smirks. "Did anyone see the dress Glimmer bought? It's actually not as provocative as you'd think it would be."

"Cato won't be too thrilled about that," Clove replies. "He's only going to see her again."

Foxface practically chokes on her own saliva.

_He's only going to see her again._

_He's _only _going to see _her _again._

Only her.

_Only her._

Finch feels a disgusting, jealousy-induced bile rise in her dry throat. It is astonishing how a simple sentence, how two mundane words, can twist her mood around. To be honest, she has been expecting something like this to happen, so she doesn't know why she is this dumbfounded. Why wouldn't Cato choose Glimmer over her? A boring redhead has no chance against a Barbie doppelgänger. Clove and the girls are still talking, probably still about Cato and Glimmer, but all Finch can hear are two words.

_Only her._

Cato is only going to the party for Glimmer.

This is what she gets, she figures, for assuming that he had any interest in her.

_Life will go on_, she mentally reminds herself. _You still have books._ They don't sound too thrilling now.

The limousine arrives to the Quaid Manson ten minutes later. The traffic at the house is much worse than the traffic on the roads. The street is already lined up with vehicles and a man dressed in a white suit points the incoming cars to the spot where they can park without getting fussed at by neighbors. When the male spots the limousine, he waves for it to ring around the circular driveway and drop the girls off right by the doors, knowing that the birthday boy's girlfriend is a passenger.

"Damn, you have a good boyfriend." Johanna muses.

"Oh, I know," Clove winks as she steps out onto the rocky driveway.

They all laugh as they ever-so carefully exit the polished limo. Finch regrets wearing heels as she, arm-in-arm with Clove, steps across the rocky pathway. In all honesty, she regrets coming here at all.

As soon as they walk inside, they are overwhelmed by perfume, cologne, and alcohol scents. Partygoers are standing around with wine glasses, slightly swaying to the music coming from an outer source, their clothing blending in with the white furniture and pale walls. The atmosphere is still calm; no one is drunk ... _yet_. The night is still young.

"Everyone's probably out back," Clove leads the group through a bright corridor. "We put these waterproof lamp things in the pool and set up some other lights."

For Finch, every corner turned is a hazard. There is a possibility that she could run into Thresh, into Cato and Glimmer, into a waiter carrying party food on a tray. _You have to eat tonight_, she thinks. _You have mints._

Clove leads the small group through glass doors that open out into the real party. It's like they have stumbled into another world when they step outside. The music is loud and lively, making the ground thump with every bass beat. The servers are everywhere in the crowd, each carrying a different appetizer. College kids are standing around with their dates, about ninety-eight percent with a drink in their hand and the other two percent too drunk to hold anything.

It'll be extremely difficult to find anyone in this mob.

Annie, Madge, and Katniss run off to find their boyfriends. Enobaria and Johanna hound a server down for a cocktail. Delly disappears into the crowd, greeting everyone she recognizes. Clove scans the crowd with squinted eyes, presumably searching for Marvel.

"I'm going to go see if he's upstairs." she finally decides, realizing that it's futile to spot a particular person in this crowd. "Wanna come?"

Considering that Marvel won't be able to keep his hands off Clove when he sees that dress—no, Finch doesn't want to tag along.

"No, I'll wait down here," she smiles.

"All right. Can you get me a drink—Southern Comfort, please?"

"Of course."

With that, Clove is clanging away on five-inch heels. Finch doesn't expect to see her again for another half-hour.

Too lazy to hunt down a server who is carrying the Comfort, the redhead walks back inside the well-kept mansion and heads to the kitchen. Marvel won't mind if she digs around in the pantry to get his girlfriend a drink. She spots the butterscotch-colored alcohol on the top shelf and grabs it along with a glass. Turned away from the kitchen entrance, she sets the glass on the counter and fills it.

It's been a while since she drank. Finch remembers tasting tequila and—being such a lightweight—deciding to never drink alcohol again. The young woman doesn't understand how people can stand the strong taste, yet alone the smell.

"I didn't take you as a Comfort drinker—a drinker at all, really."

Finch whips around to see Cato leaning against the kitchen frame, his hands stuffed into his white pockets and a smile on his flaw-free face. He wears a pale blue dress shirt under his white suit jacket, which—of course—looks incredibly great on him. He looks like he slightly greased his hair for the event, and he is definitely wearing more cologne than usual. Finch can smell the cool scent from across the kitchen.

"Oh, no," she corrects. "This is for your sister."

Cato nods understandingly and takes a few steps into the kitchen, his enchanting aroma moving in with him.

"I think Glimmer might be out back ..." Finch continues, because that's obviously who he came here to see. That's obviously who will have the privilege to rip that suit off later. Jealousy has never been so alive and thriving in the redhead.

"Oh ..." he responds, the word sounding like a question.

_Okay ..._

"So are you coming back out to the party?" he changes the subject. "I kinda don't want to walk out there alone."

She hesitates a moment and lifts an eyebrow in confusion, but ultimately nods and screws the cap back onto the Southern Comfort. She doesn't go out much (at all, actually), and she shouldn't isolate herself in the kitchen—of all places—the entire night. She should be out with everyone else, absorbing in the energetic music they grind to under an alcohol influence, reminding herself why she doesn't drink and party.

Cato leads the way through the halls.

"Don't walk too fast," Finch says, struggling to keep up with him on her tall shoes. "I have zero balance in these heels."

Laughing, he slows his pace and falls into step beside her. He lifts an arm up, quickly places it back at his side, and then hesitantly coils it around her waist. "It'll be harder to walk through the crowd." he explains, but she honestly doesn't need an explanation. She feels ten times better whilst slightly pressed into him, the fabric of their clothes brushing together with every move they conduct. But then a thought pops into her mind: Glimmer could see them like this—whatever _this _means—and that will surely upset her if she and Cato had planned to meet here. Somehow, Finch can't find herself caring. She presses even closer into his side.

The warmth glowing through his suit is calming, more comforting than whatever relief the Southern Comfort bottle may have brought on. She doesn't know how she will handle things if the warmth abandons her to be rewarded to someone else.

_Stop_, she thinks. _You're getting way too clingy. Cato doesn't like you that way. He's just doing a friendly favor._

The backyard has turned into a sea of white, the color stretching as far as they can see. The cocktails and alcoholic drinks the servers carry are slowly making their way through the entire mass, like pollution spreading through an ocean.

"There are some tables we can sit at in the back." Cato murmurs right next to Foxface's ear, because that's the only way they will be able to hear one another with all the turbulent music, chatter, and laughter. A shudder tickles down her spine as she looks up at him and nods, motioning for him to continue to lead the way.

The two weave through the thick mass and Cato holds Foxface tightly—almost protectively—in determination to not lose her in the crowd. When she thinks about it, she can't help but blush and thank God that he can't see the diffusion on her cheeks.

Whether it be from bad luck or good luck, she spots Johanna dancing suggestively in the crowd and the two make direct eye contact. When Jo rests her brown eyes on Cato and where his arm is, she almost drops the vibrant drink she holds onto and a smirk forms on her small lips. The minx flashes Finch a dirty look and a thumps up. Yep, definitely from bad luck. She will definitely be hearing about this on Monday morning, maybe even tonight through text messages. Johanna breaks their eye contact for a moment to look in the direction that they are heading in. When she turns back, Finch can see her eyes go wide and bafflement paint across her face.

_Great_, _someone's probably drunk and stripping_, she thinks sourly.

Johanna is now ignoring the guy she was dancing with and vigorously shaking her head at Finch. The redhead waves off a response. Drunk people are disgusting, but she doesn't find them completely unbearable. Giving her friend one last smile, Foxface looks straight ahead and tries to pay attention to where she is walking. One more clump of people to get to and they will finally be able to sit down. These high-heels are making her feet ache.

Cato still feels warm and comforting around her waist, assuring that she won't fall or get lost in the crowd. It's been nice to take in his cool scents all this time, even though they have been mingling with the alcohol and perfume on everyone else.

Abruptly, he stops and she can feel his body go stiff. Finch looks up at him with worry in her eyes, but he is murmuring a cussword into his free hand. Wanting to see what is bothering him, she looks ahead and sees _exactly _what has got him troubled.

_Fuck._

There _they _are—Glimmer and Thresh; his hands on her hips, her body propped in his lap and pressed against him in the most provocative way. Glimmer whispers something into his ear—Foxface only catches the words _cock_, _suck_, and _come_—before their lips meet and their tongues go into action, his right hand weaving through her blonde tresses and tilting her head back to angle his tongue even farther into her (presumably alcohol-scented) mouth.

Finch thinks, _Thresh, Thresh, stop doing that; I love you. Stop that._

Finch thinks, _Thresh._

Finch thinks many things, but her heart hurts too much to say them aloud.

It's just when Cato starts to tug her away that the two notice them.

"Finch ..." Thresh starts, something similar to a smirk on his face, but she's already pushing her way back through the crowd.

"Foxface!" The voice belongs to Cato this time, his concerned tone somewhere behind her trudging feet.

Not wanting to stop, she continues through the party guests and brings a hand up to wipe her invisible tears away. They will be visible soon, though. A burning sensation has made itself welcome in her throat, the tension rising up her windpipe. There will be either tears or vomit; she is unsure which, but neither is acceptable in front of all these people.

Somehow, Cato catches up with her and wraps his arm around her waist again. Finch decides not to push him away; he is possibly the only other person who knows how she feels right now. He was supposed to meet up with Glimmer here. Instead, he catches her promising the guy that beat him up that she'll make him come.

This night has turned out to be _wonderful_.

As soon as they make it back inside the mansion, Finch is practically pulling Cato through the corridors that lead to the kitchen.

"You need a glass of water?" he asks.

"Wine." she corrects, misery clouding her throat.

Cato doesn't reply; only guides their way to the kitchen to fulfill her wish. They eventually get into the eating area and that's when he uncoils his arm from around her waist. Foxface tries to ignore the chaotic thoughts speeding through mind and steals a glass from a kitchen cabinet, hand shaking. Not having the patience to search for a suitable wine, she grabs the Southern Comfort on the marble counter.

"Let me—I'll do it, Foxface." Cato takes the bottle from the despondent redhead and halfway-fills the wine glass.

Thanking him quietly, she brings the glass to her lips and lets the alcohol stream into her mouth.

Betrayal. It is the foremost feeling she feels weight down upon her (now heavy) gut. It burns and hurts more than starving herself ever has. How long has this been going on? Are they just drunk? Why was he fucking enjoying it so much and why is this fucking tearing her up inside? They broke up months ago; she isn't supposed to feel this way. It isn't supposed to be like this.

Foxface brings a trembling hand to her temple once she downs the remainder of the glass Cato poured.

A migraine threatens to make this night even worse.

How could he do this, especially after their almost-sex last ... When was it? Her usually-organized mind is starting to fall apart like puzzle pieces, but that only ensures her that the alcohol is doing its job. But the almost-sex! How could Thresh forget about that? Of course, it _was_ almost-sex and not exactly sex, but it would have been good ... And he forgot about it. And he might give it to Glimmer. And she might have a problem with that.

She needs to leave before she does something she'll regret.

A hand stops her when she moves forward, though.

"Foxface, are you okay?" Cato. "I don't think you should go back out there. It'll only bother you more." As he says this, he runs his thumb across her cheek and that's when she realizes that she's crying.

"I just ... I should go home." What she _should _do is finish that Southern Comfort bottle.

"You shouldn't drive while you're this upset." Cato points out.

Body and mind still adjusting to the liquor, she tilts forward and pauses for a few moments (minutes, maybe) before replying. "I actually took a limo here. Marvel, he ... I can get the limo driver to take me home." she muffles, and then looks back at the Southern Comfort bottle. Wow, that stuff is good. Great, even.

"Do you want me to go with you? Make sure you get inside safely?" _Yes, yes, please. Come inside with me and get into my bed. Damn, you're cute. _Did she say great? Fucking fantastic is what she meant.

"That'd be great; thank you for offering," Giving a curt nod, he takes the redhead by the waist again. Just as they start toward the kitchen doorframe, she halts their movements and whips her head around at the marble counter. "Let's take _that _with us." Finch slurs, pointing a trembling hand at the miraculous Southern Comfort. The fruit, spice, and whiskey flavorings taste too divine on her tongue to let go, and it's doing wonderful things to her thinking pattern.

There are people in the hallways and the anteroom, but she doesn't care about them seeing her in this drunken delusion. They're all intoxicated, too. No one will remember how drunk everyone else was by tomorrow morning.

The man standing by the front door recognizes the redhead as a limousine passenger and calls for it with some walkie-talkie. It doesn't take long for the smooth, white vehicle to ring around the rocky driveway. Cato opens the door for Finch and helps her into the spacy backseat. He climbs in after her, the two sitting in seats across from one another. As soon as Finch tells the escort her address, the limo cruises off on what feels like cloudy roads.

Finding it inevitable, she takes another gulp from the bottle.

More emotions—all haphazard and messy in her thoughts—wash over her as the liquor makes its way down her throat and into her gut.

Disbelief. Jealousy. Anger. Hatred.

Thresh knew what he was doing and how it was upsetting her. The fucking smirk on his face told it all.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

"You still care about him, don't you?" Cato talks with a cautious and caring tone, his blue eyes—scratch that; those things are fucking orbits glowering into her very soul—glistening with something that looks like disappointment.

"I ... I try not to ..." How does Cato do it? How does he go from girl to girl, as Clove and some others implied, without caring about them? How does he just briefly get together with them and then go search for something better? Doesn't he ever care? Love? Finch feels so pathetic under his gaze right now, crying over someone she dated months ago and he doesn't seem to care less about Glimmer, a girl he was supposedly meant to meet here tonight.

"I actually think they're good for each other." he interrupts before she can splutter something out. This makes her flinch back into her seat, and she lifts an eyebrow in utter incredulity. _What the fuck? Why would he—_"They both have those huge-ass Lana Del Rey lips. They're perfect for each other."

Just like that, she is hunched over and laughing uncontrollably. This isn't the first time Cato has turned her mood upside down. He is laughing, too, his hand reaching for the Southern Comfort bottle. Foxface hands it to him and places a hand on his knee as he takes a swig from it.

"Cato, you are horrible!" she giggles. "I never even noticed that ..."

"You damn sure noticed it! Those things are visible from the space shuttle. Glimmer thinks it's cute."

"Says the person who _knows _that it's cute. I bet those lips came in handy in some ... areas." Yep, she is definitely drunk. Never would she say something like that in a state of sobriety. Who knew being intoxicated felt this ... _free_?

Blushing a little, Cato takes another swallow from the Comfort and shakes his head. "I thought that, too. Fuck, was I wrong. Hand action was okay. Definitely not the best ..." he trails off and they start laughing wildly again.

"So," Finch begins once they have stopped, voice low and a hand still on his knee. "Who _was_ the best?"

Their eyes meet and the world feels like it's slowing down. Everything is so still and quiet; it's almost as if their slowly-blinking eyes can be heard through their alcohol-induced atmosphere. Foxface moves farther up her seat and moves her hand farther up his leg, their pupils never leaving one another. Cato visibly tightens his grip on the Southern Comfort and his other hand rakes through his dirty blonde hair. _A nervous habit_, she thinks.

"I can't remember. This chick named Lyme, maybe."

_Lyme. _That's the girl who kept commenting on his Instagram pictures, asking him where he was and when he was coming back.

"Am I making you nervous?" she asks when he runs his hand through his hair again.

"You're making me _something_," Cato groans as her hand moves up his leg even more, "but it certainly isn't nervous."

Finch is now leaning so far into her seat that her knees are gradually coming in contact with the limousine floor. Cato expels a relieved breath when she pulls her hand back from his inner-thigh, but it is cut short when she parts his knees with one hand and brings the other to his belt. Their eyes are glued together as she undoes his pants, her eyes silently asking if this is okay and his eyes silently begging for her touch.

_Watch this, Thresh_, Finch thinks briefly before pushing the thought away, ashamed. But the vixen still leans up to kiss Cato as she takes his velvety length into hand, stroking it slowly as their lips meet. His lips are warm and taste like Southern Comfort—just as hers probably do, too—and they press against hers flawlessly. She wonders what they would feel like on her neck, sucking on the sensitive skin until marks are left and gradually kissing down to her breasts, giving each one careful attention before peppering kisses down her stomach and going ... _everywhere_.

Holy shit, she likes him—like an infatuated schoolgirl attraction, like a fangirl obsessing over a hot guy on those movies. Finch wants to show him how much she likes him.

Their kiss breaks apart as soon as his tongue attempts to slither into her mouth. Their eyes meet again through the lust-clouded haze. Foxface retreats down to between his legs with parted lips. Their gaze isn't interrupted until she runs her tongue across his tip once, twice, three times. That's when Cato tilts his head back and growls lowly, his already-solid cock growing even harder in her hand. Foxface continues to stroke him as she licks around his entire tip.

_Bet you regret kissing Glimmer now, don't you, Thresh? _The alcohol is thinking—and acting—for the young woman now. Oops.

Cato weaves a hand through her hair and gently pushes her down farther onto his erection. Sensing his need, she takes him in as much as she can and her hand strokes what can't fit into her warm mouth. The moan-muffled cussword flowing from his mouth sends a shockwave through her body, starting from where it registers in her brain and stopping somewhere in her crotch.

It's been a while.

"Fuck ... Thresh let ... _this_ go for ... for Glimmer?" Cato grinds out.

Suddenly, she stops and looks up at him with curious and lust-clouded eyes. "But I thought that," she breathes heavily as she continues to stroke his massive length, "you were going to meet up with her here?"

"No." he disconfirms in a thick voice.

With that, she is bobbing on his cock again. Wet noises dance around with their moans and groans, the limo turning into some sex vehicle. Finch can taste his precum leaking from the slit on his tip, the liquid salty and warm.

Yet again, she stops and looks up at him. "But I thought she was your girlfriend," she adds, making up things to be sure that their relationship statuses are the same. Her hand continues to tug up and down on his silky hardness, still stimulating it while her mouth takes a short break.

"A long time ago." he groans out.

"But not anymore, right?"

"Not anymore," he pants, almost painfully.

His hand fists her hair tightly as she lowers her mouth onto him again, almost as if he is making sure that she won't stop and tease him again until he is finished. This is the kind of control her father would show. Somehow, it doesn't bother her with Cato. Finch can't think up a better place where his hand could be ... No; there is definitely a better place his hand could be. Another electrifying shock makes its way to her crotch area.

Mouth moving even faster, she glides her tongue up and down his shaft and wishes that Thresh were watching. That smirk would definitely be washed off his stupid, perfect face. Just thinking about the dark-skinned male encourages Finch to move faster, to stroke harder and not care about grace and rhythm.

Cato comes when the limousine slows to a stop. "Fuck," he grunts, his hand grasping her hair firmly before slowing releasing it.

They are both speechless for a few moments, their breathing the only thing making noises. Finch runs her tongue along her lips a couple times before rising from the carpeted floor and perching herself on the seat edge. Her amber eyes watch Cato as he puts his cock back into his pants and grabs his belt. They have Southern Comfort, leather seats, and a belt, and the night has to end now? A whine rumbles past her lips.

Affectionately, Cato leans forward in his seat and brushes his warm lips across her cheek.

"I can return the favor, you know," he offers hotly into her ear.

The offer is tempting, sends another heatwave through her body, but she shakes her head.

"This is my stop," she replies softly.

"I could walk you to your door."

Smiling, Finch grabs her handbag and eyes the Southern Comfort thoughtfully. No, that stuff has already done its job; she'll be lucky if she wakes up with any memory tomorrow morning. "Cato, you're too sweet," she decrees, opening the door and stepping outside with as much poise as she can muster. Not much. Poking her head back into the backseat and licking her lips suggestively, the vixen adds, "_Literally_."

With that, she is prancing toward the front door on what feels like clouds.

This night really has turned out to be wonderful, hasn't it?

* * *

**Who else feels like a slut when writing sexual scenes? Anyone? Just me? Oh ... Well, I hope everyone enjoyed the Chapter! Just a reminder, Cato and Finch were **_**drunk**_**. Don't want drunkenness to get confused with OOCness ... Reviews are always lovely!**


	10. Ten

**I'm ridiculously sorry for the late Chapter! Life has been a bitch, Tumblr is addicting, and I've been writing a Cato/Glimmer one-shot ... Would you all believe me if I said I shipped Cato/Glimmer and Foxface/Thresh harder than Cato/Foxface? All multi-shippings aside, this comes first!**

* * *

_Bythos  
"I left my girl back home,_

_I don't love her no more,_

_And she'll never fucking know that,_

_These fucking eyes that I'm staring at."_

—_Wicked Games_, The Weeknd

* * *

**Cato**

Cato greets dawn with a killer headache and a big, stupid smile on his face. He sits up in bed and rubs his drowsy eyes, leaning against the headboard as the memories from last night soak into his nexus.

Everything started out so frantic—with Foxface getting a front-row seat to see Glimmer and Thresh ferociously make out, resulting in her storming through the crowds like a bat from Hell. It took him an entire minute to catch up with her and wrap his arm around her (alarmingly tiny) waist. But all thoughts about her weight flew from his brain, as she was visibly upset and shaking irately against his side. Admittedly, she looked sexy as Hell while fired up like that. But the gentleman in Cato knew that that detail was irrelevant. The gentleman in Cato knew that he needed to help her before she did something stupid.

That's when the Southern Comfort came into play.

It certainly did the trick, that God-given alcohol. One glass—sip, actually—and Foxface was an entirely different person, stumbling across the kitchen as if she were about to embark on a quest and save the world in her drunken haze. One thing led to another and they were in a limousine together, laughing and drinking. Touching.

Fuck, she has a talented mouth. Somehow, it winded up around his dick. Her tongue worked fucking wonders on him. It definitely won't be something he'll forget. He wonders if she feels the same—if the alcohol, with its memory-erasing ways, will even allow her to.

After thinking it all over again, he realizes something pivotal. Last night changes their association. They haven't made anything about their relationship official yet; they were both drunk off their asses—she was, at least—and only reacting on lust. But they can't go on being around each other acting as if nothing has changed. Poor Foxface will probably wake up this morning thinking that he's had his fix from her and is moving on to the next chick. He couldn't feel anymore opposed to the idea, though.

Basically, she is different. Better.

Maybe he should text her—take the initiative.

He grabs his iPhone and presses the button to compose a new message. He searches his mind for a suitable greeting, which should serve as a simple task, but turns out almost impossible. What the fuck _can _he say? He has never made it this far with someone; liking them enough to actually contact them on his own. Not for a long time, at least.

For the first time in a while, Cato feels the need to ask for relationship advice (which is fucked up, because he isn't even in a relationship ... _yet_). He considers asking the nearest male possible, but then he remembers that that's Brutus. Fuck no. He would give Marvel a quick call, but he's probably still resting from his eventful party last night. He wouldn't want to be bothered the morning after his birthday either, so ...

_Fuck it_, he thinks as he types in what's in his mind.

_You have a fuckawesome mouth. _Cato deletes the comment and types in _Good morning_.

Too vague? Too I-know-you-gave-me-a-fucking-wonderful-blowjob-but -I'm-going-to-act-like-your-mouth-wasn't-on-my -dick-last-night? This shit gets too complicated.

After debating for a minute, he just sends the message and runs a hand through his hair. This was the nervous action that got her mouth wrapped around him. If that's all it takes, he'll rake his hand through his hair until he went fucking bald.

Cato gets up from bed to strip out of the white suit he has yet to take off. In his boxers, he goes to the kitchen to grab an apple. A new text awaits him when he gets back to his room.

_Good morning ..._

Biting from the red apple, he lifts an eyebrow and tries not to feel intimidated by the dots. Cato types in a reply and sends it. _You got a headache, too? _

_Try migraine_, she answers.

This small-talk is getting him nowhere and he's certain that they both know this. After considerate thinking, he types what he _hopes _will get them moving forward from this wasteful exchange. _Do you want to go out for brunch? So we can talk in person? _

It takes Foxface almost five minutes to respond. _Sure._

_Great. Where & what time? _

Another five minutes passes by. _Any time and place that's good for you._

He checks the time; it's nearing eleven o'clock. He doesn't feel like getting ready just yet. _12: 30 la Madeleine? _He shouldn't have taken her to that cheap diner before, even though she did seem to appreciate that cheeseburger.

_Sounds great. See you then._

Tossing his phone aside, he gets up to throw the apple core away and brush his teeth. He'll have to think up what he'll say when they actually do meet face-to-face again. The tension around them is something he isn't looking forward to, but something that will (hopefully) ebb away. _Don't be a pussy, just be ... Cato. No, don't be Cato. Be gentleman-Cato; leave douchebag-Cato here. _Just as he starts to calm down, another problem pops into his head.

His truck.

Did he drive it home last night, or did that limo driver take him home? Praying that it isn't the latter, he walks across the house and over to the kitchen window._ Shit. _His baby isn't in the driveway, isn't in sight.

Looks like he'll be needing to text Foxface one more request.

* * *

The doorbell rings at exactly twelve-thirty. Cato knows this because his pupils are glued to the time on his iPhone. This is what he has been doing since eleven o'clock; watching the time. He did a few things in between—posted a selfie on Instagram, took a quick shower, ate some cereal. But he has been too absorbed in waiting for twelve-thirty that he found it futile to attempt anything else.

Cato thanks the fact that Clove is still with Marvel as he approaches the door. He still has yet to find out why his stepsister acts as a vicious guard dog toward him when it comes to Foxface. Thresh must have really fucked her over or something; kinda like he fucked over Lyme and those other girls ... Maybe Clove _should _act like a guard dog when it comes to him talking to Foxface.

Swallowing down his anxiety, Cato puts on his friendliest smile (trying his best not to look like a seductive douchebag) and opens the door.

Foxface stands on the doorstep with such a peaceful demeanor that Cato is relieved from his nervousness almost instantly. A light blue sundress covers her tiny frame, a small purse over her right shoulder. Her hair hangs in waves, the sun reflecting off the vibrant color it obtains. Her amber eyes—perhaps his favorite feature about her (apart from her ass)—meet his for a moment before dropping to the ground, a blush spreading across her porcelain and freckle-free cheeks. She always looks so tiny. Tiny and classy.

"Foxface."

He wonders if she likes being called by her nickname more than her real name. It doesn't seem to bother her when she's called Foxface. The name is fitting; her unique features aren't easy to overlook.

"Cato." she replies so quietly that he only sees her lips move.

They study one another.

Cato marvels at how different she is from their last encounter. Last night, she was drunk, un-shy, and wrapped around his dick. Right now, she looks like she has never done so much as even kissed a boy.

"Ready?" she asks, glancing back to her silver Sedan.

He nods a response.

Her car makes him miss his truck even more, despite the fact that he hasn't been away from it for an entire day and will be with it again soon. He is too used to feeling above everyone else in his towering vehicle. The Sedan smells like Foxface, though, and that's what he likes about it. Mint. Autumn. Dainty perfume.

"Did you want to stop to get your truck first or go straight to la Madeleine?" she asks.

"We can go eat first." Cato answers. The strain between them is something he wants to resolve as soon as possible. The weight from last night sits heavy on his shoulders—hers, too, it seems. Would he feel this way with anyone else? Absolutely not. But Foxface is different and deserves to be ... well, treated differently. Respected.

The drive to la Madeleine seems awfully long and quiet. Cato opens his mouth more than once to suggest that they turn on the radio, but the words disappear somewhere in his throat. He wonders what'll happen when he tries to address the events from the previous night.

Thankfully, the French restaurant isn't too crowded. An old couple stands in line before him and Foxface, who walks behind him tentatively. He would blame her hesitance on shyness, but she almost seems repulsed by the dessert display they walk past. Her eyes stare apathetically at the pastries for a moment, and then they squint in an unexplained aversion. This is the same daunted state she exhibited when he took her to that diner. It seems rude to ask what's wrong in this situation, so he just ignores it and waits in line.

He orders a turkey BLT and Strawberries Romanoff, and she just orders the Caesar Salade.

"Move; I'm paying." she states before he can pull his wallet from his back pocket. Foxface shoots him a playful grin as she takes out a credit card. If she didn't give him that sugar-sweet smile, he would've argued back and refused her to pay (la Madeleine is ridiculously overpriced, even though the food _is _incredible). It's a shame she only ordered a salad.

"Thank you," he says as they move over to the soda fountain.

"You're welcome." she responds softly, filling her cup with unsweetened tea.

They settle down at a table by the window, where the sun gleams faintly on them through the glass. Foxface sips her tea and gazes across the table at Cato, an expectant look on her face. He remembers that he is the one who is supposed to start this conversation; he is the one who initiated this date.

Before he can spark up the conversation, the waiter brings him the Strawberries Romanoff and informs them that their other orders will be arriving soon.

Foxface eyes the Romanoff sauce curiously. "Is that ranch?" she asks, squinting.

Laughing, Cato shakes his head and takes a strawberry. "You've never had this before?" he questions, dipping the berry in the sauce made with brown sugar and Brandy.

"No." she replies quietly.

"Try it." Cato suggests, extending the strawberry between his thumb and index finger forward.

A pink ting spreads across her porcelain cheeks and her eyes study the berry with something that appears to be suspicion. After a moment, she leans forward to meet the strawberry with her parted lips. Cato tries not to think about how incredibly sexy she looks as she bites into it. Her teeth clamp onto it lightly and she pulls away, the blush on her cheeks becoming more and more evident. After chewing and swallowing it, Foxface looks up at Cato and gives him an approving nod.

"Wow, that's amazing." she swoons.

Cato grins.

Everything is so calm and tensionless that he almost doesn't want to bring up last night; the real reason why they are here. But that would mean that nothing will be gained from today, that he is—quite simply—ball-less. The worst thing that could happen, he figures, is that she curses him out for somewhat taking advantage of her drunk state.

_Don't fuck this up ..._

"So, uh ..." he swallows. Foxface focuses her stare on him, looking as if she expects to hear something important. "Last night was ... eventful."

At the word _night_, her cheeks altered into a color closely resembling a tomato. Cato is almost certain his have the same diffusion.

"Yeah." she agrees with a nod. Hand slightly trembling, she picks up a napkin and wipes strawberry juice from her lips. After putting it down, she adds, "The most eventful night I've had in a while."

It takes Cato a few moments to think up an acceptable way to respond to that. Skipping to the apologies is the right road to go, even though there is nothing for certain that he needs to say sorry about. "Look," he says. "I didn't mean for what happened to happen, if that makes any sense ... I feel like I took advantage of you in a way."

"No, not at all." she disagrees. "I shouldn't have drunk all that alcohol. I know I'm a lightweight."

"You were drinking with good motive," Cato reasons, recalling how Glimmer was practically plastered to Thresh. Of course, the way Foxface reacted confirms that she still has feelings for her ex-boyfriend. This revelation can (_and will_, Cato groans internally) cause future problems if they do get past this awkward stage and start dating. But Cato will save that conversation for when it's needed.

Biting her lip, Foxface descends her gaze on the smooth table. "I just ..." she trails off and starts to pick at the napkin dispenser, uncomfortable. "I don't want you to think—and I'm not saying that you do—that I'm ... you know ... _easy_. I know you've probably been with girls who were, but I ... I'm not a prude, it's just that ... Gosh, I sound like a babbling idiot, don't I?"

_I know you've probably been with girls who were._ His reputation certainly does float around, doesn't it? Glimmer, he guesses. Clove and Thresh had to get their information from someone. Cato brushes that unimportant thought aside and smiles lightly.

"No," he answers. The uneasiness she portrays is what makes him more attracted to the redhead. Never has he been with a girl less than obsessive and sexually fierce toward him, and the change is what he finds appealing. "I know what you're trying to say."

The waiter delivers their food, but they don't seem all too interested in eating at the moment.

"I just," she continues when the waiter leaves them, "don't do those things with people who I'm not, you know, dating." She's practically throwing the chance at him. It's now or never.

"Which is why I wanted to talk to you again," he takes the risk, "to ask you if you wanted to date."

Foxface gazes at him as if she expects him to say more, and starts blinking in a dumbfounded manner when he doesn't.

"You ... You'd give me that chance?"

"Of course," Cato responds quickly. "Why wouldn't I?"

A hysterical giggle rises from her throat, and she lifts her eyebrow as if the answer is obvious. "I'm just ..." she motions toward herself with a self-offending facial expression. _Amazing. Gorgeous. Great at giving blowjobs. _"... _me_, and you—you're like a ... a Greek God."

Cato can't contain his laughter. "I don't think I've ever gotten Greek God before," he chuckles. "Thank you for that."

"But it's true." Foxface presses.

"Then you must be a Goddess." She shakes her head slowly, staring at him with sorrow-filled eyes that suggest that he's finally lost his mind. "Between us two, you're the more Divine Being. You're nice as Hell. You visited rape victims. You just paid for this expensive-ass food. Don't minimize yourself," Cato concedes.

Hesitation plagues her movements as she proceeds to poke at the napkin dispenser again. Her eyes—dopey and sad—suggest that she's sea-deep in thought. Cato wonders what it would be like to dive into her head. It's razor-sharp and intellectually gifted, he knows, but he also is certain that there is much more that is buried in her internal cavern. There has to be a reason why she acts this ... cautious.

After a seeming to have a breakthrough, her honey-hued eyes dart back up at him and her eyebrow levitates again. "So you honestly want to date me," It sounds more like an incredulous statement than question.

"_You'd_ give _me _that chance?" Cato answers with a question. On the outside, he smiles. On the inside, he's about three seconds away from yelling at her to just answer. There isn't anything for her to be worried about; he isn't the person Clove has probably convinced her that he once used to be.

Chewing her bottom lip, she blushes some more and nods.

"I don't think we should tell Clove about this yet," she decides. _Oh, _that's _what she was worrying about. Cute._

"Yeah, she'll probably kill me. I'll talk to Marvel about it; see if he can talk some sense into her."

"Great idea." she nods approvingly.

With that, they are starting to eat the food the waiter brought. When Foxface is finished her salad, she excuses herself to the restroom and Cato is able to expel a breath he didn't even know he was holding.

* * *

"I parked farther down the street, but you can drop me off here." Foxface stops her Sedan on the street before the enormous mansion. Cato is in the mood to hang out with Marvel for a while, and not just to ask him to talk to his psycho girlfriend about her obsession for protecting Foxface. "You can come with me if you want."

The redhead considers this, but ultimately shakes her head.

"No, you two can hang out alone. But I think Clove might still be with him." she warns. He'll have to lie about how he got here.

"I'll tell her that Cashmere drove me here on the way to the store." he shrugs.

Foxface nods before cocking an eyebrow at him. "You're a great liar," she observes. "Should I be worried about that?"

Laughing, Cato opens the passenger door and shakes his head. "I'd never lie to you." he vows, though not even he knows how much truth the statement holds. "Is that mutual, though?"

"I'll be honest about any and everything you ask me about." she replies playfully, although it's said after a slight pause. He spots something green and white beneath her tongue; a spearmint-flavored mint. No wonder it smells so fresh and minty in here.

"Sounds fair," he grins and exits her car. "I'll text you later."

"Okay," she smiles.

The blonde grins back before closing the car door and walking toward the Quaid Manson. He can hear Foxface drive away moments later. The term _girlfriend _still sits awkwardly in his head—probably due to the fact that it's so foreign and underused in his vocabulary. But, somehow, it feels right.

Cato rings the doorbell several times before Marvel opens the door in nothing but boxers. His brown hair is ruffled all over his head and his eyes are bloodshot.

"You must've had a great night."

"Of course," Marvel allows his friend into the mansion. "You should go home and thank Brutus for making Clove."

"Is she still here?" Cato asks.

"Sleeping."

Marvel walks (stumbles) through the corridors to get to the kitchen. Cato takes a seat on the stool by the counter, grabbing an apple from a fruit bowl and passing it back and forth between his palms as he watches his friend dig around for something to cure his hangover. Marvel finds some Ibuprofen and takes it with water, then takes out leftover pizza.

"What about you—you have a good night?" he asks while he warms three slices.

"Best fucking night in a while." The words fly from his mouth before he can consider their weight. He wonders if he should tell Marvel about what exactly happened with him and Foxface. It would be a douchebag move, but he knows that Marvel won't do anything malicious with the information.

Eyebrow heaved, Marvel leans forward as if he does expect an explanation.

Fishing for the right wording, Cato begins to explain what occurred as discreetly as possible. Marvel widens his eyes more and more as the story goes on—by the time Cato is finished, he thinks that they'll pop right out their sockets. These things have happened to people before ... but they, of course, weren't with a sexy-as-Hell redhead with the most talented mouth in the world. Being a vagabond—moving from place to place and being with girl after girl—Cato is in the position to decree this.

"Clove is going to murder you."

"No, she isn't," Cato darkens his tone, "because she isn't going to find out."

Marvel holds up his hands in defeat and takes the pizza slices from the microwave. "Did you and Finch talk about it?" he questions, then bites into a Hawaiian pizza slice.

"We just left brunch at la Madeleine; she dropped me off here."

"No wonder I didn't see you two last night," Marvel recalls thoughtfully. "So, what, y'all are together now?"

Trying not to smile, Cato nods.

"How are you going to keep that from Clove?"

"I was hoping you would talk to her." Cato says.

This causes Marvel to chuckle, and he goes to pull two Coke cans from the refrigerator. He tosses one to Cato. "_God _could talk to Clove and she'd still try to keep you away." The lanky male shrugs and frowns at his old friend. "There's something about Finch, I guess, that she knows is fragile. Something personal."

This gets Cato thinking. One thought—one that's recurring in his brain—pops into his mind again, and that's that Thresh did something bad to the redhead. It can't be anything too serious, the blonde decides, if she's still getting all teary over him. Involuntarily, his thoughts drift back to the night he got his ass kicked by the dark-skinned male. Thresh did say something about her getting her heart broken easily.

_So it's been broken before_, Cato thinks. _This is really cliché._

He leans forward on his elbows and vows that it'll never be fragmented again—not by him, at the very least.

* * *

Cato runs into Cashmere when he returns home. The sun is setting in the bluing sky, and she is wearing sunglasses. _Always trying to look younger than she already is_, he thinks.

But he doesn't realize just how wrong he is.

* * *

**Wow, the ending seems stupid. But it's going to be very relevant in the next Chapter or two, which hopefully won't take as long as this one did. Reviews are hugs and kisses! **


	11. Eleven

**Many apologies for the late update! Thank you to everyone who keeps pushing me to update and to everyone who sends me asks about this story on Tumblr. Sincerely, you all remind me that people actually care about this story and these characters—and that's the best pleasure an author can receive.**

* * *

_Bythos_

_"Girls and their curls and their gourmet vomit,_

_Boys and their toys and their six inch rockets,_

_We're all very lovely till we get to know each other,_

_As we stop becoming friends and we start becoming lovers."_

—_Homewrecker_, Marina and the Diamonds

* * *

**Foxface**

Yoga class is not something Finch looks forward to going to on Monday. On any other day, she would be ecstatic to be in her serene cavern—reading a book before the students arrive and listening to the lulling Sarah Fimm. But her heart thumps with the dread that _someone _will bring up Saturday night. She can almost hear their gossiping voices now.

_Oh, my god—I can't believe Thresh did that!_

_Did you really go home with Cato?_

_We need details, you dirty fox._

Groaning, she shoves her key into the studio lock and disappears inside. The clock on the wall informs the redhead that she has about ten to fifteen minutes before the students begin to show up. So she can text Cato back without having to worry about someone bursting into the studio. He sent her a good morning greeting while she was driving. Plopping down onto a beanbag cushion, she smiles as she texts him back. _  
_  
_Good morning. Whatcha doin'?_

She reaches for a novel on the nearest bookshelf to read while she waits for a reply. _Holes_, by Louis Sachar—a great novel about inner strength and persistence. Being such a swift reader, she gets through the first few pages before Cato texts back.

_Occupying my time until 8: 00 tonight_, he responds.

Eyebrow lifted, she places her book down and replies to his intrigue. _Oh, what happens at eight?_

_We're going to SMM._

_That looks awfully similar to S+M_, she texts back after some consideration. The comment is suggestive, but writing is the only time she can make these remarks without being all awkward and reluctant.

_Hahaha, it's Scary Movie Monday at the drive-in theater_, Cato explains in a new text. _But S+M is cool._

Laughing, she facepalms herself for not remembering what SMM is. Movies are played at the drive-in every day of the week on specific weeks during the summer, each day having a distinct theme. Finch texts Cato back, _Do we really have to go to the scary movie? Why not wait until _Titanic_ Tuesday? _Though the more she thinks about it, seeing a scary movie with him will be fun. She can act—though it honestly won't be acting—as if she's scared and cuddle up to him. The idea makes her blush.

_We can go to both then_, he answers.

_Fair enough. Hey, I'll text you later. I have to start yoga soon. _

_Okay, bye._

She stands from the beanbag and goes to plug her iPhone into the studio speakers. Moments later, she can hear Sarah Fimm enchanting the cavern with her divine voice. _If anyone is a Divine Being_—she thinks, reminiscing back to the brunch she had with Cato yesterday—_it's Sarah. _Her felicity is short-lived, though, as Johanna arrives to the studio early for a reason that they both know.

_My regret for showing up today starts now_, Foxface thinks sourly.

"Good morning." she greets coolly.

"Hey," Johanna replies. "Girl, you okay? I was gonna text you, but—"

"I'm fine." she cuts the short-haired woman off and smiles reassuringly. "I'm really okay."

"Hm, okay," Jo responds diffidently. A knowing smirk limns across her face and Foxface figures that this is when the questions start to get personal. "Cato seems like he got you together. Boy ran after you as if you took his money."

The thought gets Finch choking in laughter, and she buries her face into her hands to conceal her blush. Is that honestly how everyone else perceived it? Is that honestly how worried he was about her?

"I'm so fucking serious," Jo continues. "I'm glad he did, though—I really didn't feel like pushing through that crowd."

"Well, thank you for considering." she responds after calming down.

With that, she grabs _Holes _again and turns back to the page she was on. But she knows that this conversation isn't over just yet.

"So you're not going to tell me what happened after you two left together?" Johanna confirms her fear.

Eyes closed, the redhead closes her book and tries to think up a believable lie. Of course, her usually-overworked brain lacks any ideas for a tall-tale. It's moments like these when she wishes that those talkative voices in her head would give her something to work with—but they only speak to hurt her, not help her. Realizing that this is futile, she opens her amber eyes again to see Johanna giving her an impatient glare.

"Must you be so nosy?" she sighs.

"Yes," Johanna chirps shamelessly. The minx plops down onto the beanbag adjacent from her timid friend. "I'm _nosy_, but I'm not _messy_. You can trust me."

This statement is taken into consideration. As prying and intimidating as Johanna Mason is, it's unlikely that she'll direct her wrath at anyone apart from Glimmer. Finch has no reason not to trust her most daring yoga student. She has no one else to turn to; she might as well appreciate the attention.

"You're going to keep this to yourself, correct?" Finch needs it to be confirmed one more time.

"Yes!" Jo exclaims, impatient as ever.

Hoping that she'll never regret this, the redhead proceeds to narrate the explicit encounter she had with Cato on Saturday night. She still can't believe it happened, can't believe she let her shyness melt away into nothingness all due to seeing Glimmer and Thresh wildly make-out. Alas, she doesn't regret a thing—but she won't be mentioning that to Johanna.

Johanna has an eyebrow arched by the time the story is finished. Finch can only imagine what she's about to—

"Girl, I should punch you in your face!" she shrills. "That's, like, the second time you stopped someone from giving you head!"

Groaning, Finch stands up from her beanbag and shoves _Holes _back into its respective spot on its bookshelf. "Is that the only thing you got from what I just told you?" she quires as she walks over to a yoga mat on the floor. She knew she should've left the extraneous details out.

"How come you get all the guys that _offer_ to go down on you?" Johanna continues, following Foxface to the floor.

_I have no idea. _"Luck, I guess," she answers. "Any more questions, or can we start yoga?"

"No one's here yet." Jo wails.

"So we have peace." Foxface murmurs back, closing her eyes sedately and getting into the _Lotus_ position. The yoga instructor waits to hear another compliant from her company, but is pleasantly surprised to be met with silence. After a few more moments, she can hear Johanna shifting on her mat—presumably joining her in the meditation stance.

They are joined by other students within the next five minutes. Everyone is present after another five minutes; Clove being the last one to show up.

Finch can't help but think that their friendship is wearing out. They used to do everything together, and used to text each other constantly whenever they weren't with one another. Clove would tag along with Finch whenever she went out somewhere with Thresh, despite being single and possibly feeling like a third wheel. It didn't matter to them, though; she was fun company. Comparatively, Finch goes (well, used to go) out with Clove whenever she and Marvel had a date. They were always there for each other. But it just doesn't feel the same anymore.

Perhaps it's the fact that Clove keeps pushing—pushing her to go back to Thresh on her hands and knees. It's not going to happen, especially after what he seemingly planned on Saturday night. Foxface is uncertain if Clove has heard about him and Glimmer yet, but it's doubtful that she has. Maybe she should explain it to her friend; maybe it will get her to stop _pushing_.

Maybe it will get her to lighten up on her and Cato dating.

The conversation will have to wait until the hour-long class is over.

Of course, it wouldn't be a yoga class if there weren't any gossip and excessive talking.

Apparently, Marvel missed the majority of his party due to spending too much time receiving his birthday present from Clove. "Not that he regrets it." she adds, pulling her raven hair back into a ponytail to reveal her smirk.

Enobaria mentions that she and Johanna had a great time, though neither go into details about it. Delly mentions how underwhelmed she was with the whole night, how she didn't get flirted with by anyone apart from some drunk idiots. Finch decides to stop listening to the chatter by the time they start talking about the afterparties—where they go home with either their date or some random guy and do God knows what. Finch knows that she can't judge, though; not after that limo ride with Cato. She can feel a blush start to spread across her face and quickly brings her mind to something else.

The yoga class continues normally despite the post-party recollections. They go through the basic poses, into the intermediate, and end with the advanced. Clove and Delly lag behind when everyone else is leaving to their cars. Finch tends to Delly first, knowing that she needs to talk with Clove alone.

"Um, Finch," Delly begins hesitantly. The redhead expects the worst. _Please don't bring up anything about me on Saturday, please don't bring up anything about me on Saturday. _"My books for college are ... expensive, and I'm already kinda broke, so—"

"You can't pay for yoga." Foxface sighs with relief. Delly gives her a strange look and cocks an eyebrow. "No, no, that's not a good thing! I was sighing because—no, I wasn't relieved at that."

The perplexed expression is replaced with a crestfallen one. "I'm sorry," mutters the blonde.

"No, don't be." Finch smiles warmly. "Keep coming to yoga—pay me when you're able to."

Delly widens her blue eyes in amazed shock, then—without warning—she grabs Finch and pulls her into a tight hug. The redhead doesn't have time to jump at the abrupt contact; she just shakes the memories from her childhood away before they can form and hugs back. "Thank you so much, Finch!" Delly squeals, pulling away from their embrace. "You're the best."

_Worst_, she corrects mentally. Physically, she just smiles at the blonde.

"It's no problem," she assures.

Delly exits the studio after giving her thanks one final time. Her absence leaves Clove and Foxface alone to their business.

"I haven't talked to you since Saturday night." Foxface states.

Clove nods in agreement. "I did spend a little too much time with Marvel, didn't I?" she responds.

"It was his birthday; you were supposed to."

"I guess ..." she trails off.

Something pivotal is obviously dwelling in her mind. _Maybe she does know about Glimmer and Thresh_, Finch thinks. Whatever it is, she certainly is being hesitant about sharing it and Clove is not one to consider her thoughts before spewing them aloud. _  
_

The dark-haired Rapunzel focuses her eyes on the floor, sighs, and then looks up again. "So I'm guessing you saw that picture Thresh put on Instagram ..."

"Picture?" Finch cocks an eyebrow. "What picture?"

"You didn't see—oh, shit." Clove realizes her mistake and runs a hand through her ponytail.

Wasting no time, Finch runs across the studio to get to her iPhone. The redhead yanks it from the speaker cord and hurriedly types her passcode in. Instagram lights up the bright screen seconds later and she goes to the search bar. Clove is walking up behind her by the time she has _threshprince _typed into the engine. "You shouldn't care." Clove says, but she isn't listening. She isn't breathing by the time the pictures load; anxiety plaguing her with its distressful ways. _  
_

Sure enough, she sees the picture Clove is talking about before she sees anything else. As tortuous as it is, she clicks on it to make it even bigger. The fuzzy image shows Thresh with his lips on white skin. The skin belong to a neck, though the photo doesn't show whose via image cropping. It doesn't need to show whose, though. The caption tells more than needed: _And it's not even her birthday. #putyourcakeinmyface w/ glimmering._

"Wow," is all Finch whispers.

"Gross, right?" Clove agrees. "But you know they were drunk."

As if _seeing _them kiss wasn't enough, Thresh had to go _this_ far? Foxface would never go out of her way to betray him in this disgusting manner; not purposely, at least. Is this how he felt when he saw her and Cato at the skating rink?

_Remember: you did some things with Cato. You're not exactly a saint either. _

Swallowing, she puts her iPhone to sleep and shakes her head. "I don't care," she decides. It's a patent lie, but she'll start to believe it if she says it enough. "He can be with whomever he wants; I don't own him."

"He doesn't want Glimmer!" Clove argues back. "Foxface, they were drunk. He _could_ be with whomever he wanted if she'd stop being stubborn and comply."

"I don't want him, Clove!" Each word is enunciated with unmistakable anger, though the sentence is somewhat shaky.

"You don't know what you want. You don't even know how to eat." Clove retorts, grabbing her friend by the arm and dangling it in the air. "You're all skin and bones! You told me that you were eating, Foxface."

_I _am _eating. I'm just throwing it up afterward. _"I also told you that it takes time for me to gain the weight back." she retaliates sharply. "I want my body back to the way it used to be just as much as you do." _I want all this fat gone. _"Trust me."

The request for trust is met with silence. Clove appears to be immersed in consideration; her body is motionless apart from her green-gold eyes, which are observing Finch up and down. The fox-faced yoga teacher is truly and wholly grateful to have a best friend that is this worried about her health. Everyday, she is appreciative that she has someone who cares about her at all. But if Clove sincerely cared about her and her health, she would allow her to purge her unacceptable mass away. Since that won't happen, she needs to be lied to.

Suddenly, a car horn is honked just outside and Clove glances at her iPhone. "Marvel," she announces.

_Thank you_, Foxface thinks.

"You better be eating," Clove warns. "I'm seriously worried about you."

"I know."

"I don't like babying you. I do it because I have to."

"I know."

"You know how much I love and care about you. Hell, I don't even say this shit to Marvel."

_No one loves me. _

"I know."

* * *

Foxface is digging through her closet to find something to wear at the last possible minute. Cato will be arriving to bring them to the drive-in theater soon and all she has out to wear is a mint green high-low skirt. The redhead would find another skirt to wear that would be easier to match something up with, but she finds the high-low incredibly cute. Alas, she comes across a black and white-striped shirt with short sleeves. After observing the outfit on her bed, she just shrugs and throws the clothes on. Mint green can go with black, right?

Her hair is tied up in a high ponytail and she wears no make-up.

The doorbell rings just as she is about to force herself to the bathroom mirror. Suddenly smiling, she flicks the light in her bedroom off and heads to the front door. Cato stands on the doorstep wearing jeans and a leather jacket.

"Are you hot?" she lifts an eyebrow at the thick jacket, finding it needless in this summer weather.

"You tell me," he grins.

Rolling her eyes at the joke, she turns the living room light off and the porch light on. Last Saturday, she made the mistake of not leaving it on for herself when she got home from the party. In her unsober state, she stood at the locked door for about five minutes without any progress of getting it to open. If she recalls correctly, she even tried to get it to unlock with those famous words _open sesame_. Needless to say, she won't be consuming any alcohol any time soon.

"Well, you certainly look hot in this thing." she replies, running a hand down the leather covering his right arm.

"I'm gonna take it off soon. It was just cold as Hell at my house." he explains.

Finch cocks an eyebrow at his simile. "Cold as Hell?" she giggles.

"You know what I meant." he counters, taking his girlfriend by the hand. "I bought us some candy for the movie. I didn't know what you'd want, but I do know you like mints—so I got you some HERSHEY'S mint-flavored chocolate."

This makes her freeze in her place. _He bought me chocolate. He's going to expect me to eat it. You don't have mints; you don't have anywhere to put them! _Finch chose not to bring a handbag on this particular date, but she is now deeply regretting that poor decision.

"Shit, you don't like chocolate, do you? I knew I should've texted you ..." Cato cusses underneath his breath, running his free hand through his blonde hair.

"No, I do!" she responds quickly, not wanting him to get upset over a mistake she's made. It's not too late to go fetch those mints ... "You can go wait for me in your truck. I just have to go turn the TV in my room off."

Cato hesitates, visibly not convinced by her reassurance. Foxface only smiles at him and gives his hand a gentle squeeze before letting it go. This gets him to nod and smile back before heading toward his midnight-hued truck.

Relieved, she hurries back inside the house and scampers to her bedroom. The first handbag she finds is black and matches her striped shirt, saving her from having to dig through her closet again. The nightstand next to her bed provides her with three spearmints—also warning her that she needs to go buy some more soon. She remembers how fast these green and white saviors disappear whenever she's with someone, because being with someone means going out on dates and going out on dates means that she's going to be expected to consume something.

A minute later, she is joining Cato in his truck. Two Walmart bags filled with candy and sodas sit between them.

"Where's the Comfort?" Foxface jokes.

"We don't need alcohol to have fun." he points out huskily.

This fact gets her blushing as he starts to drive away. She kicks off her flats and tucks her feet beneath her body neatly, her veil-like skirt covering her pale legs entirely. She tries to think up something just as witty to reply with, but her mind provides her with nothing. So Foxface just rests her head against the leather seat and smiles faintly as she watches the road ahead. This peace will soon be shattered by the horror film they're about to watch, but she isn't complaining—she'll have the opportunity to be close to Cato.

Proximity isn't a factor that she is entirely accustomed to yet. Fretfulness still curses her whenever someone gets too close or whenever they touch her without her initiation. Her jumpiness could be distinguished earlier when Delly gave her that abrupt hug. This is the second biggest plague she has gotten from her Hellish childhood. But her fright of someone being too close to her evaporates whenever she's with Cato.

Something about him makes her feel safe. The warmth attached to his skin, the way he protectively (yet carefully) holds her, everything about his concurrence: it's all impossibly soothing given his intimidating build.

Smiling in the dark, she watches him drive and resists the urge to switch seats with the two plastic bags from Walmart.

The drive-in theater comes into view mere minutes later. It's not as crowded as Finch expected it to be, but that's a great thing—there's a lesser chance that someone she knows will be here to see that she has a new boyfriend. For the time being, their relationship needs to be as private as a passcode to a vault containing trillions. The secrecy wouldn't be necessary if Clove could just support her and Cato with one another.

He parks with his truckbed facing the screen that the film will be projected on.

"We're getting into the truckbed?" Finch asks.

"It's nice outside," he winks and motions toward the star-spangled sky. If the constellations weren't there to illuminate the night, the welkin would look like black ink spilled from a bottle. It is beautiful.

The couple moves to the truckbed with the Walmart bags and get situated comfortably.

"So, what are we watching?" Finch quires.

Next to her, Cato shrugs and takes her hand into his again. "All I know is that it's a horror film. You'll probably be scared," he squeezes her hand and she rolls her eyes playfully. "You might have to sit really close to me—like on my lap."

"What if you're scared?" she retorts with raised eyebrows. "I'm not letting you sit on my lap."

"I'll just have to find something else to distract me." he murmurs, turning slightly and leaning down so that his breath tickles the skin on her neck.

"Cato," Foxface says breathlessly as he places a slow kiss to her jaw. "The movie hasn't even started yet."

But his lips feel too incredible on her skin, so she tilts her head to the side to give him easier access. He doesn't hesitate to take this opportunity; he moves down to her neck again. A small gasp expels past her lips as he runs his tongue along her pulse, moving down to her collarbone. The blonde stops suddenly and pulls away from her porcelain skin. Foxface wonders what's wrong as he stares impassively at her probing collarbone, but he breaks his unexplained analysis to reach into the plastic bag next to him.

He pulls out the mint-flavored chocolate he got her and holds it out for her to take. "Here's your candy. I think the movie's about to start." he explains, though it's not an explanation at all. _Why did you stop? _

Giving a grateful (fake) smile, Finch takes the bar from him and is about to put it on the side when she notices that he's still watching her. Trying not to groan in protest, she opens the candy and breaks off the first row of square-shaped chocolates. The redhead bites one dark brown square off and prays soundlessly that her stomach can withstand the filling treat. Yesterday, after she ate that salad at the brunch with Cato, she realized something shocking about her system: it was bringing the food contents up on its own. She didn't have to shove any fingers down her throat or manipulate herself into purging it. Her body is starting to get too used to upchucking whatever it takes in. While this is a help to her, it is also another caution—she won't be able to control what happens whenever she eats.

Finch lets the chocolate square melt in her mouth, then she laggardly swallows the minty taste down.

_Please stay down_, she begs internally.

"Do you want a piece?" she offers Cato after a lengthy pause.

"No, I'm all right." he replies, turning back to the projected screen with a half-smile on his face.

"Why are you smiling like that?" Finch sets the HERSHEY'S down and hits him on the shoulder lightly. "Did you poison the chocolate or something?"

"Of course not," he laughs, finally taking that leather jacket off. "I was just making sure that you liked chocolate, babe."

"I told you that I did." she mutters, cozying up to his side again.

"Just making sure," he repeats again and coils his arm around her waist.

The beginning credits to the film start to roll just as he says that. The couple quiets down and focuses their attention on the projected screen.

The flick turns out to be a cherry pie fest—red syrup, guts, and gore are flying left and right. Desperate screaming signals a death just about every other ten minutes. Finch stops watching after a half-hour and resorts to hiding her face into her boyfriend's shoulder. He seems to be unbothered by the incessant blood splatter and helpless shrieks, as he laughs softly when she buries her eyes into the white fabric his shirt is made with.

"Stop laughing at me." she mumbles into the soft cotton.

"But you're so funny." he responds optimistically.

An idea leaps into her brain. The ploy is daring and makes her hesitate for a few moments, but she ultimately decides to go through with it. "Well, I'll make you." she says, sitting up to level their gaze. Too shy to hold his icy stare, she leans forward to meet his lips with hers. Thresh has moved on with his love life, so why can't she? They can both have fun without each other, and she can prove that right now. The vixen moves slowly onto Cato, rotating onto his lap as she coils an arm around his neck.

It takes him a moment to process what she's doing, but he reacts immediately when the slight shock disappears. His right hand moves to hold her face; his left goes in the opposite direction, moving down to grasp her butt through her thin high-low skirt. Foxface is now completely atop him, their bodies moving in a tidal push and pull as she runs her fingers through his dirty blonde hair.

Cato brings his other hand down to her derrière as the kiss deepens. Foxface arches her back, pushing her butt out into his grasp and pressing her breasts into his chest. He breaks their lip embrace to connect to the curve in her neck, sucking on the thin skin with a mute intent to leave a mark.

"Mmm." Foxface half-hums-half-moans, her hand still weaving through his spiky hair. She could have let him suck and pull on her skin for hours, but she disengages from him to bring their lips back together. She allows his tongue to explore her mouth as her other hand trails down his shirt—her fingers running down his chest and tracing the well-founded squares on his stomach before meeting the button on his jeans.

Suddenly, she pulls away from their kiss and stares him right into the eyes. "I love doing this for you," she admits as she undoes his jeans and strokes him through his boxers.

"You've only done it once for me."

"Would you like me to do it again?"

"You don't have to." Cato insists, but she can see that his eyes are begging. The avidity behind his cerulean eyes is pronounced.

Without another word, she pulls his jeans down and his boxers go move with them. She takes him into hand a moment later and is watching the expressions on his face morph as she strokes him.

Need.

Her pace fastens.

Developing bliss.

Her thumb grazes across his slit.

Pleasure.

The manifest lust ripples throughout the nighttime air, making the already-humid temperature even more fiery. Their hands continue to travel—hers along his erection; his up her thigh, the skin beneath his fingers flowing with electric charges. Foxface silently thanks the fact that she's wearing a skirt, a high-low skirt at that. Cato proves that the clothing choice provides easy access as he grazes his fingers along her panties teasingly, touching her in a way that makes her want to beg and scream for more.

But isn't this what she told him that she wasn't—easy? Didn't she inform him that she isn't another girl who'll provide him a quick, emotionless release? At least, that's what she promised herself yesterday during their brunch talk. Isn't she going against everything she believes by allowing this, by initiating it?

No.

Today is a new day and—somewhere across the town—Glimmer and Thresh are doubtlessly wrapped around one another, entangled in bed without a single ounce of regret picking at their insides. The blonde and dark-skinned male are both attractive, sexually-fierce personas that are most definitely having hot relations in bed. So what's stopping Finch from doing the same?

The vixen stops her ministrations to coil an arm around Cato, using his broad shoulders for balance as she uses the other arm to hike her skirt up above her waist. Her intentions are clear as she gazes into his eyes, unafraid. He pulls the hand that was on her panties back as she shifts in his lap again.

Her mouth moves forward to meet his again, their tongues whirling as his erection presses against her bare thigh.

Cato abruptly pulls away, breaking off every wondrous connection. "Foxface," he starts and runs a hand through his blonde spikes. His tone is shocked and perhaps even a tad bit fearful.

"No, I want this," she promises him. "It's natural. You're not taking advantage or anything." Desperation clings to her tone and she isn't able to fully enforce the verbal assurance, so she continues with the physical one. She wants him to know that she is utterly okay with this, that this is the most beautiful and pleasant thing they can share.

She wastes no time as she adjusts onto him again fully, so that his hardness is pressing into her panties and rubbing against her clit. The black fabric is almost inconsequential as she rocks atop him, heat and wetness saturating her underwear, blood pulsing through that area and pounding into her needy flesh. Before she could push her panties aside, rid the only thing that's keeping them from joining, Cato speaks. And the words are deafening.

"Foxface, not here. Not in my truckbed at a drive-in. I mean, it's only our first date."

Rejection. Cato is denying her warmth. The connection—the soul-bounding commerce they were about to share—he doesn't want it.

And she's a freak because she does.

How could she believe for a second that he even wanted her? How could she—in a blind, heated lust—forget that no one wants her disgusting body? Her obsessive need to have Cato is becoming increasingly palpable and she's certain that as soon as he realizes his hold on her, he'll leave. What is there to stay for? There is nothing that she can present to him that's interesting or worthy enough for him to waste his time on.

_You aren't even another number on his list_, mocks a voice in her head. _You're not even worth the sex._

This causes her stomach to twist and turn, and she can feel vile rising quickly up her throat. Foxface actually has to swallow the small vomit to avoid having it splatter all over the truckbed. The redhead needs to leave, to escape into the bathroom in the drive-in's snack shop, before she feels the urge to violently puke again.

So she turns to anger to solve the problem, recalling his words and purposely using them against him.

"What do you mean by that?" she shoots back, eyes squinted at him. "Are you suggesting that I'm some slut or something?"

"Of course not, babe," his eyebrows furrow in confusion. "I'm just saying that we shouldn't do this right here, right now."

"Well, what the Hell are you waiting for?" she retorts angrily. "Don't you like sluts? Don't you want me like that?" Salty tears roll down her face because she already knows the answer. It's not as if she can blame Cato, though. It's not his fault at all that she's so hideous, so unbearable.

She stands up before he can reply, her mint-colored skirt falling back into place. She jumps down from the truckbed and storms away, her flats slapping against the ground with each stride she takes. She is able to hold herself together long enough to arrive to the restroom and lock herself in a roomy stall.

That's when she lets herself go; despondent sobs ring from her chest and bile slithers up her throat with a snake-like persistence. The hot spray is being coughed into the toilet moments later, her knees digging into the hard, stone-cold floor.

Failure.

It is all she can think about: how she failed with Cato, with the supposed-to-be nice date he planned, with being _normal_. The voices in her head chant the word. _Failure. Failure. Why can't you do anything right, you useless moron?_ Foxface sobs over the round bowl, hating herself for ruining everything and talking to Cato in the childish way that she did. She knows for certain that he doesn't think she's a slut; he simply doesn't crave her in the way she craves him.

The young, tormented woman spits into the toilet again—sweat and tears tumbling down her ghost-white face—when she hears a voice.

"Foxface?" Cato is in the women's restroom.

"Yes." she wails, too weak and defeated to say anything with more substance.

"Are you okay? Are you sick?" he asks.

Swallowing, she tears off some tissue from the dispenser and wipes her mouth. "Yes," she repeats miserably. _In every way possible_, she refrains from adding. She releases the tissue into the toilet bowl and takes a deep breath before she beings to stand up from the rigid floor.

"Come out. Let me drive you home." Cato offers, worry thick in his deep tone.

Finch listens to him, opening the stall door to find him on the other side. His mouth is creased with consternation and fear, making her feel even worse—she is the one causing his discomfort. He pulls her into his side and leads her away to his truck. Not a word is spoken between them as they walk back to the black vehicle—the only talking heard is from the woman on the horror film, and she is begging for the murderer to spare her life.

Of course, he doesn't.

Unintelligent people never make it out alive.

Cato opens the passenger door to his truck and tucks Foxface into the seat, even going as far as buckling the seatbelt for her. Each caring action he carries out makes her feel even worse about herself. It would make her feel much better, she decides, if he were the least bit rude.

Not words are spoken from him as he exits the drive-in theater and gets back onto the highway. He drives as if he's auditioning for the next _Fast and Furious _film, his truck grunting its dissent and discomfort, the cab shaking and threatening to self-destruct. Finch glances over at him nervously to see Hell shining in his usually-melting eyes. This is when she realizes that she most definitely took their argument too far, made their first fight as a couple more dramatic than it needed to be.

"Cato, slow down!" she warns, trying her best to maintain a cool voice. "You're going to murder your truck."

A blank stare is what he responds with. His eyes take her in wholly—inquiring, speculating, wondering, scrutiny simmering in his gaze. It is almost as if he's observing the damage written across her dismal soul. But she isn't quite ready to see her internal blemishes, her irreparable spirit. Unable to hold the chilling gape, she reaches for her black handbag and takes out two mints. The foul smell and taste in her mouth needs to be drowned out as soon as possible.

As she unwraps the hard candies, she takes another peak at Cato. His blue eyes are still cemented on her, his handsome face illuminated by the streetlights on the road he travels wildly on. He isn't even attempting to watch the road now; his dark pupils are following her every movement.

"Cato, maybe you should pull over. I don't think it's safe for you to drive like this." she reasons cautiously, though her heartbeat can be heard through her clothes. Her boyfriend—huh, she'll be lucky to have that association with him after this horrendous night is over—is driving crazily enough for him to be considered drunk.

Foxface is about to pop the spearmints into her mouth when he slams on the breaks. Not suspecting the move, her body is thrown forward and her red ponytail smacks her across the face. Thankfully, the seatbelt around her body stops her from banging against the dashboard too hard. Her mints—her _saviors_—fall about the carpet on the truck floor and disappear underneath the dark night.

"What is wrong with you?" she screams shakily. "Are you trying to kill us?"

"What's with the fucking mints? That's all I can ever smell on you. You act like you're fucking addicted." he barks back, and she recoils at his harsh words.

This is the moment every person with an eating disorder—with a secret at all—dreads: when two puzzle pieces are put together. Foxface doesn't want to think about what'll happen when one more person discovers her dark ways, especially if that person is Cato. She just wants the puzzle pieces to be piled atop one another, clumped together in a sloppy mass that's impossible to put together. Is that too much to ask for? Is she meaningless enough to even have her privacy stripped away from her?

"Maybe I just like them." she responds quietly. "Maybe they calm me down." The answer makes little to no sense, but it's all she can reply with. The statements hold the utter truth, though. The green and white circles are the only candies that she willingly eats; they're savory, cool underneath her tongue, and hide her secrets better than anything else ever can.

Cato runs his hands down his face, stressed. Finch doesn't have to remind herself that this is all her fault, that he isn't overreacting or being unfair, that she is the one who instigated all this needless melodrama. Her actions made the night the way it is and there are no other alternatives.

"I'm gonna get you home." he decides, his hands wrapping around the steering wheel again.

Her lips sucks in a gasp-like breath in expectation to be thrown back onto the road (which is thankfully clear) again, but he drives collectedly. After dragging minutes, she figures that the truck is moving twenty miles less than the speed limit. The lengthy ride is speechless, because neither seems to want to say anything to make the date even worse (if that's even possible). It started out so nicely ...

The second Cato stops on the street before her house, Foxface opens the truck door and almost trips as she hurriedly tries to get out.

"So I guess you won't be up for _Titanic_ Tuesday?" he breaks the silence.

Stifling a giggle, the redhead shrugs and clutches her black handbag tighter. _So you're not breaking up with me yet? You must have a very high tolerance level ... _"_Titanic _is a bit overrated," she concludes. "Anyway, I don't think movie dates are in our caliber."

"Right," he chuckles to himself.

They stay silent for a few moments. Say goodnight to one another. Finch disappears inside her house and wonders if it's the least bit feasible for a relationship to wear out the day after it started.

* * *

**Find me on Tumblr: eknowbaria . tumblr . com. **


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